


death of a bachelor

by gudetama (elementary)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon, BAMF Newt Scamander, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt Newt Scamander, Implied Sexual Content, Kid Newt, Kissing, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Violence, Original Character(s), Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementary/pseuds/gudetama
Summary: Newt proposes eleven times before he gets an answer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliaaaaaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliaaaaaa/gifts).



> This is for aliaaaaaa who is amazing and gives so much in her comments and warms the depths of my heart and a good part of my writing venture into this fandom has been made positive thanks to her. So, thank you!!
> 
> Warning: Despite the summary this won't actually describe all eleven proposals lol
> 
> Super-inspired by [this](https://everythinggramander.tumblr.com/post/155468876696/gramander-google-search-38394041-by)
> 
> Title is from Panic at the Disco!'s song of the same name

The summer of Newton Artemis Fido Scamander’s seventh year after being born into this world, he meets the love of his life.

It isn’t a nice, sunny day when daddy’s friends come to visit their home; rather, it’s rainy and humid and the Graves family arrives looking bogged down by the weather, according to his mum. His whole family greets them at the door and Newt peeks from behind his big brother, apprehensive of the strangers. Besides their skin and some articles of clothing, they’re dark all over and with no small wonder does Newt think how their bright and colourful daddy is friends with these people.

What’s even more amazing is that until daddy introduces them when they’re properly settled in the living room, Newt doesn’t realise that one of the Graves is actually their kid. Like Theseus and him are their parents’ kids.

 _He’s so old_ , is his first thought, then, _and kind of scary_. Percival Graves isn’t smiling, eyebrows thick and serious in a not-quite frown, dressed in a suit and tie. He refers to their parents respectfully as Mr. and Mrs. Scamander and shakes hands with both of them. He then offers his hand to Theseus who takes it firmly, ever the brave, confident one at only fifteen-years-old. Newt, tightly pressed to Theseus’s side on one of the sofas, assumes that’s it because he’s a baby and adults usually wave, pat his head, or ignore him altogether. But the man turns to him next, holds out his hand and meets Newt’s wide, surprised stare.

“Nice to meet you, Newton,” he says, a bit softer than his previous greetings to the others.

With those brown eyes focused solely on him, Newt sees that they’re warmer than he thought. He hesitates, feeling uncertain, and glares briefly at his brother who nudges forward. When he looks back at the younger Graves shyly, he’s wearing a small, crooked smile.

“It’s alright, Theseus, he's understandably wary,” and before Newt can muster the courage to reach out, the man steps back and it feels like he just missed out on an important opportunity.

Theseus and he separate from the group soon after to play by themselves while the adults talk and catch up and Newt regrets that moment, wishes he could have shaken the hand that acknowledged him. They're both kneeling in the dirt looking for insects to feed the baby bird they found last week when his brother asks what's wrong. Newt shakes his head but unconsciously glances at the window through which he can see his parents and the Graves.

“Does he scare you, Newt?” Theseus asks worriedly, pausing in his search. “Don't worry; I'll protect you.”

“It's not that, Theese,” Newt replies absently, watches as Mrs. Graves points at him for some reason.

And Mr. Graves the younger turns his head, catches Newt looking at him. His stomach rolls nervously when Mr. Graves stands and disappears from the living room, only to appear outside near where he and his brother are. Newt startles, yelps and falls back onto his bottom, and they both stare at each other in shock. Mr. Graves recovers first and walks over to Newt, presumably to stand over him and laugh as other kids usually do. He can feel his eyes well in shame before Theseus cuts in between them.

“Stay away from him,” he hears his brother warn.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten him,” Mr. Graves apologises, and Newt looks up in surprise though all he can see is his brother’s back.

“Anyone would be if you apparated in front of them suddenly,” Theseus retorts as he turns to help Newt up.

“That is true,” says Mr. Graves, nodding solemnly.

Then he just stands there staring at them, and Newt tries not to squirm while Theseus dusts off the remaining dirt off him because he’s unused to such focus directed his way from someone not his family. He’s tugged behind Theseus who asks why Mr. Graves is out here.

Surprisingly, the man’s expression turns sheepish. “I would... like to make your acquaintance.”

Theseus snorts. “Not like that, you won’t.”

“Theese!” Newt gasps, horrified at the rude response.

But Mr. Graves isn’t angry; he actually _smiles_. “I suppose it’s obvious I’m not accustomed to children. Maybe you could teach me.”

He seems genuine, and it relaxes his brother a little though he grumbles about not being a kid. Mr. Graves asks what they were doing and Theseus looks to Newt, shoots him a mischievous grin before facing the other man again. It makes him nervous.

“We were just about to go see the hippogriffs.”

They spend a good half-hour teaching Mr. Graves the proper etiquette of interacting with the creatures, and he does well considering most adults are intimidated by them. That isn’t to say Mr. Graves isn’t either because he certainly looks it, but he steps forward bravely and follows Theseus’s exact instructions. It’s weird to see since adults generally don’t want to learn from someone younger than them, and they tend to avoid anything they can’t intimidate themselves.

The wonder and surprised delight on Mr. Graves face when Fido bows back makes him appear younger than he initially seemed.

Mr. Graves proceeds to introduce himself to the rest of the herd and by the end, even Theseus seems grudgingly impressed. It’s then that Newt realises his brother wanted to scare the man, perhaps to avenge him, and he’s annoyed and grateful at the same time.

Newt’s sitting on the grass watching, leaning against Birdy, the youngest of the herd who is lying with him, when Mr. Graves walks over. He tenses, eyes shifting unconsciously to look for his brother, but Theseus must have gone to get treats for the hippogriffs. Birdy rises and Newt scrambles up, too.

The man stops, bows, and waits for permission before approaching, then he crouches in front of Newt. “Who’s this one?”

Newt bites his lip, fingers tightening on Birdy’s neck feathers. This is the second time he’s being addressed directly and it’s no less scary than the first, but for once, he wants to be brave, too.

“Her name’s Birdy,” Newt says quickly, then shuts his mouth with a snap.

He can’t quite meet the man’s eyes so he only hears the quiet sigh, but it makes Newt hunch in further despite his earlier determination. He can't help it, especially now that he's left alone with someone who could possibly hurt him.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Newton?”

Newt wants to shake his head in denial, instead his whole body shakes. “I—I’m sorry.”

Mr. Graves lets out a noise like he’s upset and Newt closes his eyes, wishing his brother would come back soon. Birdy shifts, probably sensing his unease, and he feels bad for agitating her as well.

“I want to show you something,” says Mr. Graves after a moment.

There’s no anger, no irritation in his tone like Newt had expected, only gentleness, and it’s that more than the request that causes him to look again. Mr. Graves has pulled out his wand, a long and sleek-looking thing unlike Theseus’s slightly crooked one. A wave and a murmur, then a light appears at the tip of it, and the man starts waving it in random patterns to leave streaks of light in the air. Slowly, the light-lines form an image and Newt stares in awe as the picture of a miniature hippogriff floats between them. With another flick, it comes to life and flaps its wings wide in a majestic stance, so much like the real thing. When Newt reaches out to touch it, it explodes colorfully like a firework and he giggles.

“There you go, finally.”

He almost forgot about Mr. Graves, so mesmerised he was by the light display. The man is smiling and Newt returns it shyly.

“I like your drawing,” Newt mumbles.

Mr. Graves blinks like he didn’t expect that, and then he’s looking shy, too. “Thank you. Do you like to draw?”

Newt nods. “But not as good as you.”

“No need for that,” Mr. Graves shakes his head. “It’s all about practice. I wasn’t interested in drawing until much later than you, so I’m sure if you keep at it you can become much better.”

Again, Newt is surprised by the man’s kind words. Mr. Graves is nothing like how he imagined from first glance. Although there’s a small part of him that worries it’s all pretend, a bigger part doesn’t think so. Before he can reply, Theseus comes back and pulls Newt away, eyes flicking to the wand in Mr. Graves’ hand suspiciously. He curtly tells the man to come in for dinner and marches on ahead while dragging Newt with him by the hand.

“Sorry, Newt,” Theseus says, “I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.”

“He didn’t do anything, Theese,” Newt defends, a little upset at the interruption. “You should have seen the magic he showed me. It was—”

“What did mum and dad tell you about strangers?” Theseus cuts in and Newt huffs because it’s pointless to argue when his brother babies him like this.

During dinner, the adults are too busy talking to one another and even Theseus gets to join in the conversation occasionally. It turns out that Mr. Graves is a Junior Auror back in America, has been for two years already after his training straight out of school, following in his father’s footsteps. It intrigues his brother when he hears that the man was at the top of his class since Theseus wants to be an auror like their daddy as well, and they suggest that maybe Mr. Graves can teach him some things while they’re here.

And just like that, Newt is forgotten. Mummy doesn’t even notice that he’s not eating his veggies, doesn’t scold him not to play with the food. He wants to go back outside and play with Birdy, maybe read her a book. It’s boring listening to grown-up talks about law-enforcement and training and hexes when he can’t even use magic yet.

He doesn’t realise when he falls asleep.

 

 

The Graves don’t come the next day due to sightseeing, but they do the day after. Newt’s just finishing breakfast as mummy brushes his hair in an unsuccessful attempt to tame it. Theseus enters the dining room with their guests in tow and Newt reflexively shrinks back into his chair at the sudden crowd. Mr. Graves—dressed in similar dark clothes as before—spots him and smiles.

“Hello, Newton,” he says, and it occurs to Newt that the last time wasn’t a fluke; he’s being acknowledged.

His mother knocks him literally out of his stupor with knuckles to his head and he stutters out a rushed  “Hello, Mr. Graves.”

The other adults smile and greet him as well, and Mrs. Graves teasingly asks if he got enough sleep last night. Newt blushes and stiffens in embarrassment as he recalls waking up yesterday in his bed with no recollection of how he got there. She pats his hair and calls him cute, and he can't help the grimace at hearing that which makes her chuckle.

“Mother,” Mr. Graves sighs.

“Hush, dear,” says Mrs. Graves, tucking a curl behind Newt’s ear. “If I can’t dote on my own child, then I will very well do so with another.”

“I’m far past the age of being doted upon.”

“Twenty-two is hardly old, Percival. You are still my baby.”

And then she walks off to help mummy who is brewing some tea, leaving a steadily reddening Mr. Graves. He clears his throat when Theseus laughs and Newt finds it funny as well. Mummy scolds them for being rude.

That afternoon, daddy wants to duel against the older Mr. Graves for fun, but the other man suggests he test his son’s skills instead. The three of them apparate outside and he and Theseus sneak after them. Theseus has always been interested in dueling which he can't practice outside of school and Newt is eager to see magic other than the usual spells for household chores.

They find their daddy and Mr. Graves facing each other from a distance, wands at the ready, and Mr. Graves' father standing between them. Mr. Graves has rolled up his sleeves and removed his tie, mouth frowning and brows scrunched together. He makes being twenty-two seem old.

Once the other man signals for them to start and steps out of the way, nothing happens. Daddy just stands there, wand limply at his side while Mr. Graves shifts slightly and nothing more, though he grips his wand tighter. Yet they’re looking at each other as if the duel has already started and something about the atmosphere makes Newt nervous. He twists a hand into Theseus's shirt unconsciously.

“It’s alright, Newt,” Theseus murmurs, ruffling his hair.

No sooner he says that, the first spell is casted. A streak of yellow light flies from Mr. Graves’ wand towards daddy with an exclamation and Newt gasps when it crashes into something invisible. Daddy grins and shoots something back immediately and his spell does the same thing, disappearing in sparks as it hits a wall. Mr. Graves sends a few in quick succession and some are blocked, others dodged, and from there it goes hard and fast. Both men are flicking and swinging their wands tirelessly and it doesn’t even seem like they’re breathing in between movements.

The energy and sounds are almost too strong for Newt to handle, even standing far away from the fight, but he can’t turn away. He leans into his brother who’s vibrating in excitement judging by his face, and does his best to keep watching. He knows his daddy is strong, has always been told how he catches the bad guys and protects their family and it’s thrilling to get a glimpse of how he does so. But Mr. Graves, too, is pretty awesome, to duel against someone who’s more experienced than him. His movements are quick and graceful, smoothly connecting from one action to the next. The man grins like he’s having fun.

The fight heats up even further, lights flashing and spells cracking, and one is knocked off course. It heads straight towards Newt and his brother.

Newt watches, frozen in horror, feels Theseus wrap his arms around him. Suddenly, a large shape appears in front of them and blocks his view, followed by a loud crash that startles a scream out of Newt. He shakes and can’t help the tears that start to fall as he waits for an impact, pain, something—

—but it never happens. It goes quiet except for his own cries and a soft 'wow' breathed by Theseus.

Still trembling, Newt peeks under Theseus’s arm and sees that the shape in front of them is Mr. Graves. The man looks pale, eyes wide with guilty, shoulders slumped and head slightly bowed. It doesn’t immediately occur to him that the man just protected them, as overwhelmed as he is by what happened.

“Boys!”

Someone drags Theseus away from him and Newt whimpers, trying to hold on, but then he’s lifted into a tight embrace. He recognizes after a moment that it’s daddy and squeezes back as tightly as he can, buries his face into daddy’s shoulder.

“That was a close one,” he hears daddy mutter before kissing his head. “Your mother is going to kill me. Thank you, Percival.”

Curious, Newt lifts his head and turns to see.

“Not at all, sir,” Mr. Graves says quietly, sounding as guilty as he looks. “It was my fault, after all. I apologise for nearly harming them.”

Daddy makes a disapproving noise. “Nonsense, I was at fault, too. Got a little too excited.” Then he chuckles. “Those were some impressive reflexes.”

Mr. Graves nods slowly, still tense. “Thank you.” His gaze shifts to Theseus who’s under daddy’s other arm, then to Newt. “I’m sorry, Theseus, Newton. I hope you can forgive me.”

Newt doesn’t understand what’s going on, but Theseus replies, “Well, you did save us. If you teach me some moves, I might consider it.”

Mr. Graves snorts lightly and relaxes some. “You’d have to graduate first.”

“Hey—”

“Alright, we can continue this inside,” daddy interrupts. “Lunch should be ready soon.”

He wipes the stray tears from Newt's eyes and tugs Theseus along to walk ahead. Over daddy’s shoulder, Newt can see the older Mr. Graves walk up to his son and say something which makes Mr. Graves look up in surprise then nod. They follow slower, talking to each other with gestures thrown in. Mr. Graves' father does some kind of movement with his arm and the other man copies it. They do that two more times before they notice him and Mr. Graves smiles a little crookedly and waves at him. Newt hesitates before waving back then ducks his head. His heart beats faster for some reason and he doesn’t think it’s because he’s still scared.

Later on when Theseus describes the incident from his perspective as they lie in bed in their shared room, how Mr. Graves appeared out of the air with a crack, wand already swinging to blast the hex away, Newt listens with rapt attention.

“He’s not bad, I guess,” Theseus shrugs casually as if he wasn’t enthusiastically recalling everything a few seconds ago.

But Newt wants to know more, see more, and he finds himself sneakily following the man around the next day when all their parents are out for a day trip and Mr. Graves has to babysit him and his brother.

Theseus is in the bedroom trying to get some homework done which leaves Newt to play by himself. He's a bit lonely and wants to ask Mr. Graves if he wants to play with him but he’s still shy after knowing the man for only two days. He watches him give himself a tour around the house, check in on Theseus every once in a while, and pretend to look for Newt even though the occasional glance to where Newt is hiding reveals that he actually knows.

Every time Mr. Graves finds him watching, Newt runs away before he can call him. And that’s how most of the morning passes, with Newt not really getting what he wants.

Right before lunch, Mr. Graves settles down in the living room with a book and starts reading. Now that he has stopped moving, Newt has an easier time observing his target from his position behind the unoccupied couch.

With his face and posture relaxed, Mr. Graves doesn’t seem so old despite the stern-looking eyebrows and dark, dark eyes. His lips twitch up as he reads in a half-smile like he’s reading something funny and when his hair that’s too long in the front falls into his eyes, he brushes it back without missing a beat. For some reason, even such an ordinary action he has seen many times already from mummy and his brother looks stylish to Newt when Mr. Graves does it.

Not lifting his eyes from the book, Mr. Graves says, “Why don’t you get your own book and join me, Newton?”

A surprised squeak leaves him and Newt flushes, having been lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t expected to be addressed. Of course Mr. Graves knows he’s here like all the other times he knew. He wants to run away but he also wants to listen, and he stays frozen with indecision for a minute. The man says nothing else and when Newt peeks around the couch, Mr. Graves waves him over without pause in his reading. Encouraged, Newt dashes upstairs to grab a book and almost trips on his way back down, hops eagerly onto the seat next to the man. Mr. Graves smiles at him and asks what he’s reading, and he wordlessly shows him the book’s cover.

“I think I remember that one,” Mr. Graves says. “The boy is raised by animals, right?”

Newt nods, pleased that Mr. Graves knows about it. He opens the book that Theseus has been helping him read onto his lap but soon finds himself stuck on a part.

“I don’t know what—” he starts automatically, then bites his lip in realisation that Theseus isn’t here.

“What is the matter?” Mr. Graves looks over and Newt shakes his head, but the man leans closer, sees Newt’s finger pointing at a word. “'Marrow',” he reads, then proceeds to explain what that means in a gentle, patient tone and asks Newt if he understands.

And any reservation Newt had disappears, and he reads in comfortable silence until the next question, then the next. Mr. Graves answers and explains kindly each time and before he know it, he’s leaning into the man’s side as they read the book together.

That’s how Theseus finds them when he comes downstairs to take a break from his homework and to have lunch. He only raises a brow, then announces that he’s hungry.

They eat reheated stew that mummy made the night before and Theseus asks if Mr. Graves can help him with homework. The man sighs and complains that they’re taking advantage of him but his expression is one of amusement.

It’s how they all end up in the living room with Theseus asking too many questions and Mr. Graves replying half the time with answers the other half with telling him to think for himself. He also draws another picture for Newt that’s just as good as the hippogriff from the other day, this time on paper, and Newt wants to learn.

“You should be an artist, Mr. Graves,” Newt says sincerely, eyes transfixed on the way the pencil moves, clean black lines on white.

Mr. Graves blinks, smiles, but it looks a bit sad. “That’s very kind of you.”

The finished product is a panther and Mr. Graves tells him that he likes Bagheera from the book they read. Newt likes Bagheera, too, and he says as much.

“My house creature at school was a wampus, which is kind of like a panther,” Mr. Graves also says.

Newt likes this, hearing about the man. He has a nice voice even though he talks funny which is apparently how Americans usually talk. In return, Newt shares about himself, how he’s shy around people and that he really likes animals and how much he loves Theseus.

“I figured as much,” Mr. Graves laughs. “I’m envious; I’m an only child.”

“You can come over whenever you want and play with us, Mr. Graves,” Newt offers in a sudden burst of boldness, then a little uncertainly, “Right, Theese?”

His brother looks up, looks between them, and shrugs. “We’re too young to be his friends, Newt.”

Oh.

Newt swallows and tries not to pout like a baby, the words hitting him harder than expected. Mr. Graves has been really nice to them so far, didn’t get angry or annoyed even once, so Newt didn't think they were bothering him.

“That’s not true,” says Mr. Graves, patting Newt's head. “I don’t think age matters when it comes to friendship. But I guess you just didn't want to be my friend, Theseus.”

Theseus gapes and turns red. “That's—no, I mean—”

Mr. Graves laughs at his flustered brother and Newt does, too, relief and happiness soothing the tightness in his chest.

This must be what it feels like to make a friend.

 

 

During the next week, Newt tries to do everything he can with Percival, his new friend.

He invites him on a trip to Diagon Alley when mummy takes Theseus shopping for new school supplies, and he walks along the streets with Theseus in one hand, Percival in the other. They go to the bookstore, the pet store—at Newt’s insistence because it’s his favourite—and the sweets shop where they get ice cream.

Newt gets to watch Percival fight again and thinks it’s even more awesome than the last time. Percival helps groom the hippogriffs, reads more books with him, and gives Newt tips on how to practice drawing. He’s always so kind and gentle and gives Newt lots of on the head which Newt usually doesn’t like, but it’s okay when Percival did it. Their parents laugh and tease that Newt is enamoured with Percival but he doesn’t know what that means, only that he hopes the man can stay with them forever.

So, he comes up with a solution.

“When I grow up, I want to marry Percival,” Newt announces as he enters the kitchen one day.

Mummy, who is baking Newt's favourite cookies at the moment, chuckles. “Oh dear.”

Because marrying someone means living and doing things together everyday, like his parents, so it’s a brilliant idea.

“He’s so strong, mummy,” Newt gushes, “and dapper and smart and nice. He can do so many things and likes being my friend.”

“What do you think, Percival?” mummy says at the same time as a hand ruffles Newt’s hair.

“I think Theseus is going to kill me,” Percival sighs.

Mummy laughs again and Newt turns around to face the man.

“What do you mean?” Newt asks, confused.

“It’s nothing.”

Newt slips his hand into Percival's and tugs to get his attention. “We can get married, right?”

Percival smiles like Newt said something particularly funny. “That isn’t exactly how marriage works, Newt.”

“What do you mean?” Newt repeats, frowning.

“You only do that with someone you really love,” Percival explains. “You’ll know when you get older.”

There it is, the excuse that adults use when they think Newt won’t understand something, and he doesn’t like it, especially from Percival. All he hears is that the man isn’t agreeing with him but before he can express his displeasure, mummy calls him over to help with the cookies and the problem he had is soon forgotten.

Until the day Percival leaves.

Newt feels overwhelmingly sad and his tears won’t stop as he clings to Percival who’s standing by the door with his parents, getting ready to go.

“Newt, honey—”

He shakes his head hard, won’t listen because if he lets go, Percival will go away.

“I’m sorry, Percival,” he hears mummy sigh. “He has never been this attached to anyone before.”

“We’ll head out first, dear,” Mrs. Graves says. “Take your time.”

Barely aware of their parents exchanging hugs and goodbyes, Newt curls his fists tighter into the fabric of Percival’s trousers, sniffling. For once, the hand patting his head doesn’t make him feel better, only reminds him that this will be the last time it happens. Then someone pries his hands off and Newt cries out but he’s immediately wrapped in strong arms that have become so familiar in the past two weeks.

“I’ll come back, Newt,” Percival says, “or you can visit me next time. That’s something to look forward to, hm?”

Newt shakes his head again.

Percival chuckles. “No? You don’t look forward to it?”

“No,” Newt says at last, arms tense where they’re surrounding Percival’s neck. “That means you have to leave first.”

“I’ll write you as often as I can,” the man promises. “Besides, once you go back to school, you’ll have so much fun you’ll forget about me.”

That doesn’t sound good, and Newt’s eyes fill up anew with tears, his heart hurting. He draws back slightly to look into warm, dark brown eyes that he will miss terribly, that smile at him. Percival swipes a thumb under Newt’s own eyes to clean the wetness.

“Will you marry me?” Newt asks wetly, ignores the weird noise Theseus makes behind him. “When you come back?”

Percival sighs and then smiles like always and removes Newt’s arms from his neck, holds Newt’s hands in his large ones that are rough yet soft.

“I’ll think about it,” Percival answers.

The next thing Newt knows, he’s sitting at the entrance and staring at the door that closed behind Percival a few minutes ago, hoping it will open again. But it doesn’t.

And Percival doesn’t come back for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter based on the first picture which roughly says
> 
> Newt: I want to marry you when I'm older! (You're super strong and cool!)  
> Graves: Theseus will go mad if he hears this..


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TEENAGER gosh this was a hard one, even more so than baby Newt. Anyway, here's the next chapter featuring Newt's Hogwarts days and angst. Because I can't stop angst from showing up anywhere, apparently.
> 
> This is based on the second picture of [this](https://everythinggramander.tumblr.com/post/155468876696/gramander-google-search-38394041-by) which says:
> 
> Newt: Please marry me, Mr. Graves!  
> Percival: What are you saying, Newt..  
> More importantly, Theseus says he lost his ring  
> (Of course it was the niffler..)

To say that Newt is excited is an understatement. That Percival would use some of his rare vacation days to come to England, to spend one of those to meet Newt at Hogsmeade is something he had only ever dreamed of. He hasn’t seen the man since his acceptance to Hogwarts and they got together to celebrate, and it has been three years and four months since then. Newt understands—at least he tries to—that Percival’s work is becoming busier because he’s such a good auror, but it saddens him all the same whenever too much time passes between seeing the man.

Ever since he received the letter stating Percival’s visit, he’s having difficulty sleeping and concentrating on his classes as if he needs anymore distractions as is. He’s already in trouble with some of the professors this year for failing to complete his homework, being much too occupied with observing and sketching the latest additions in their Care of Magical Creatures class. Professor Kettleburn doesn’t mind him as long as he leaves the creatures alone, and though he grumbles how the other professors complain to him about Newt’s lack of participation in their classrooms from time to time, he always makes himself available to sate Newt’s curiosity.

Newt doesn’t mean to neglect his classes, of course, but his love for animals had not diminished at all as he grew and discovered more and more of them. This unfortunately also means his social skills didn’t improve much, his peers not understanding his interests and instead choosing to either shun or bully him for the most part. He only wishes that they be a little friendlier when he attempts to speak with them, but he doesn’t mind because Theseus and Percival have proved time and time again that Newt doesn’t have to change to be liked.

“What’s got you grinning all silly like that?”

Newt startles out of his thoughts, looks up to see Leta smiling down at him. His grin turns sheepish.

“Hello, Leta.”

His only school friend sits herself next to him at the table he's currently occupying, and his eyes unconsciously roam the library to see if anybody is watching. He always feels a little self-conscious here because they don't tolerate any sort of disruption and even the rustle of his own robes sounds loud to his ears.

“Surely it’s not the parchment in front of you,” Leta teases.

“No, no, of course not,” Newt hastily denies, looking down at his homework that he has yet to start. “I’m just looking forward to our trip this year, is all.”

“Even though you didn’t enjoy it last year,” she points out keenly.

Newt reflexively brings up his shoulders, says lamely, “Too many people. But I’m happy to be going outside these walls, catch some fresh air.”

Leta hums, but doesn’t sound convinced when she says, “I suppose.”

He glances over and even in the dim corner of the library where he sat himself, Leta shines bright. She’s a pretty girl with a warm hue to her skin and flowing dark hair in contrast to Newt’s pale and auburn. He has noticed how his classmates regard one another a bit differently compared to the previous years, mainly the boys towards girls and vice versa, and how they also stay closer together. He understands vaguely that it’s an attraction of sorts, and wonders if he might have experienced something similar if it wasn’t for a certain someone.

Contrary to what he was told, Newt hasn’t forgotten Percival. Not once. The more he spends time with him, gets to know him, he wonders who can possibly be better.

The man had returned two summers later after that first time just before Theseus’s auror training to speak with him and give advice from his own experience. And Newt, having waited and waited while reading Percival’s letters to him over and over, had been determined to get an answer. He still remembers Percival’s surprised face followed by an unreadable expression before replying unfavourably. Again he had been told that he was too young to know what marriage is.

But even as he grew, learned bit by bit why a marital relationship differs from others, so did the obstacles.

At first, they said he didn’t know better, that it was a passing childhood infatuation, and now they say boys marry girls and that Percival would have been too old for him anyway. What Newt doesn’t understand is that why those things necessarily matter. His feelings are his own and he has always felt the most comfortable around Percival who never judges Newt for his quirks. He is Newt’s favourite person outside of family and according to what he has seen, one should marry such a person.

Newt has given much thought as to why his proposals have been unsuccessful, seeing as he failed three times already, and arrived at a conclusion not too long ago. He decided it’s time to show Percival that he means it, and he thinks the ring tucked away in his trunk at the dorms will help with that. It’s the supposed symbol of permanence, and surely it will no longer be dismissed as a whimsical fancy.

“Is there something on my face?”

Blinking, Leta's face comes into focus and Newt belatedly realises that he has been staring this whole time. “It’s—no, I mean—sorry. There's isn't,” he stutters as he turns red.

“You just went through a lot of expressions right now,” his friend chuckles, seemingly not offended. “Anyway, I can meet you in front of the sweets shop like last time.”

Newt tries not to tense up but something must show because Leta mutters a soft ‘oh’, and he hunches slightly.

“Not good, then?”

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically, unable to look at her. “I promised to meet with a family friend.”

Even as he says it, it sounds wrong like the words don’t quite agree with him. Percival is more than a family friend; he’s someone incredibly special to Newt.

Leta seems doubtful but Newt reassures that it's the truth the best he can and bribes her with getting her favourite treat from the store and at least two bottles of butterbeer. She lets go of the matter with a sceptical look and proceeds to tell him about her day and the boy who asked her for a date. She watches Newt particularly as she says this part as if searching him for something, but he doesn't quite get it and she huffs before turning away.

When he asks what’s wrong, she replies that it’s nothing.

 

 

If Newt wasn’t going out of his mind with nerves, he would probably be chattering his teeth from the bitter winter cold. But that isn’t the case as his eyes wander from left to right, trying to catch a glimpse of a familiar face or form. He knows he came to their designated meeting point too early, yet he can’t help but hope that Percival is also here so that he can have even a few more minutes with him.

Another five minutes pass with no sign of the man and it’s then that the chill starts to register, feeling like it has penetrated through his robes and uniform and deep into his skin. His breathing trapped within the muffler that’s wrapped loosely around his face leaves an unpleasant moisture over his nose and cheeks from condensation and heat. All of a sudden, it’s hard to breathe and when he pulls it down with shaking fingers, the wind bites as the dampness instantly dries up and leaves a dull, numbing sensation. But it’s a welcome distraction from his thoughts and he absently twiddles the ring in his trouser pocket as he steels himself to wait the last couple minutes before Percival's arrival—

“Newt, what are you doing out here?”

Newt spins around, startled, and looks up into the familiar face he had been searching for. Percival's brows are scrunched and lips firmed in concern and for some reason, his heart flips in his chest as the man gazes at him. The frost must have pierced through his skull as well because his mind has gone numb, void of thoughts. He snaps out of it when Percival cups his cheek with a gloved hand and rubs warmth into the flesh with his thumb.

“Ever the reckless one,” Percival sighs, letting go to dust off the snow gathered on his head. “Let’s get you inside.”

Inside the pub, Percival quickly strips Newt of his robe and muffler and wipes melted snow off his face. He fusses over him like parent does a child and it’s hard not to frown when already they’re falling into old patterns despite that Newt is no longer a fumbling young boy.

“What, too old for hugs already?”

Newt raises his head from where he’s glaring at the floor, sees Percival without his coat and arms open, waiting. And Newt can’t resist in spite of his earlier thought, near-throws himself at the man and feels those strong arms wrap around him tightly. Percival has always given the best hugs, ones that envelop him completely and make him feel safe, protected. A hard shudder runs through his body as the residual chill leaves, chased away by Percival’s warmth.

“You’ve gotten so big,” Percival chuckles even as he tucks Newt’s head under his chin.

“You sound like my uncle,” Newt mutters though it comes out muffled.

Percival hears it just fine. “I practically _am_ your uncle at this point.”

Newt pulls back, frowning. “No, you’re—”

“Anyway, let’s grab a drink and sit down,” Percival interrupts as he lets go.

He grabs Newt’s hand easily as he leads them through the crowd towards the bar, and Newt ducks his head, embarrassed, but squeezes back. He recognises a few schoolmates as he passes by them but they don’t seem to notice him, thankfully, too occupied with their own group. They order two butterbeers then manage to find a small table in the back corner, and with a flick of his hand, Percival hangs their outerwear onto the wall next to them.

“Wandless magic?” Newt asks, awed.

“I’ve been practicing,” Percival smirks

It emphasizes his handsomeness which Newt is suddenly much too aware of and he briefly turns away, confused, heart beating quicker. It’s too warm in the pub despite having removed his outerwear and a quick touch with the back of his hand tells Newt his cheeks are still red but no longer from the cold sting. He glances back and observes how the low indoor light casts a soft glow around the man and smoothes the sharp edges of his usual posture. Percival drinks once, twice, and relaxes gradually, a slow smile of contentment stretching across his lips.

Newt sips at his own drink, thinks how he doesn't get to see enough of Percival's smiles.

“A bit sweet for my tastes, but I suppose once in a while isn't too bad,” Percival comments.

“What do you like, then?”

“Something stronger—” then he pauses, rubs his chin. “And that's all I'm going to say.”

Newt almost rolls his eyes. “I know what alcohol is.”

“Are you up to no good at school, Newton?” Percival questions with mock-seriousness. “I'll have to tell Theseus.”

“Not if I tell him first that I learned from you,” Newt retorts.

“You _wouldn't_.”

Tongue in cheek, Newt shrugs. Percival flicks his finger and Newt feels the invisible effect of the sting on his forehead.

“Ow! That's cheating,” he complains while rubbing the sore area and kicks the man in retaliation.

Percival laughs, and Newt completely forgets the weird feeling he had mere minutes ago as he also laughs. They talk, banter, draw on napkins with pencils that Newt keeps on his persons at all times, now, and Percival compliments him on his improvement. It makes Newt happier than he can say.

Once they finish their drinks, Newt offers to show Percival around the town. As they walk, Newt tells him about the latest happenings of his unremarkable school life that have happened since the last letter he sent, doesn't mention how he still doesn’t get along with his peers. Percival regards him knowingly, but says nothing about it, instead lets Newt prattle on about the creatures they learned about this semester.

“I want to be a magizoologist,” Newt says excitedly.

“Of course you do, and I’m sure you will be a great one,” Percival smiles fondly. “But you can’t ignore your other classes.”

Newt hunches his shoulders, feeling caught at the tone of warning. “I know.”

The man ruffles Newt’s hair, causing him to splutter and duck away. He knocks into Percival as payback which ends up with him having his head locked under Percival’s arm and his nose pinched. He calls Newt a brat in the most affectionate way and Newt is torn between delight and dismay since it's a tone reserved for him but similar to Theseus's brotherly treatment.

Newt doesn't want to be Percival's younger brother.

After struggling out of the hold, Newt pulls the man into a narrow path between two buildings and glares determinedly up at him. Percival blinks in confusion as Newt fumbles with the ring in his pocket and drops it into the snow. Frustrated and ears burning, he's about to pick it up but Percival stops him, using his wand to levitate it. He raises a brow at the object and Newt snatches it out of the air, horrified to feel his eyes sting from the embarrassment of ruining this already. No one says anything for some time.

Newt inhales deeply. “Percival—um—will—will you—”

He can’t even finish the question which is a first for him, just holds the ring out between his fingers and bows his head nervously. This isn’t how he meant for this to go but his self-consciousness snuck up on him although there’s never any reason to be like that around his friend. His hand starts trembling from both nerves and the cold.

“That’s Theseus’s ring, isn’t it,” Percival says at last.

Newt’s heart drops, then twists. He had sort of expected another rejection, but to have his proposal unacknowledged altogether—and to his horror, his eyes start to sting. The hurt he feels is unlike the previous times and he presses his lips together against the sob caught in his throat. A startled cry bursts forth nonetheless when his hand is grabbed between two larger, warmer ones, and he hears Percival murmur something before the chill at his fingertips disappears. Newt looks up into troubled brown eyes that only get sadder as they notice his own wet ones.

Percival asks for his other hand and works the same spell on it, then sighs heavily afterwards. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'where did I go wrong' and Newt doesn’t know how to dig himself out of this mortifying situation.

“Newt...” Percival starts, sighs again. “You know I’m always here for you—perhaps not physically, but in whatever way I can.”

“It’s not the same,” Newt sniffs.

“Alright, I get that,” Percival nods, “but I’m not certain that you aren’t mistaking this—” he gestures vaguely between them, “—for something else. You haven't even met anyone else, or given yourself the opportunity to try. I can give you advice—”

“What about you?” Newt cuts in, steadily getting annoyed. “Have you 'met' other people? And what is 'this'—” Newt copies the motion, “—supposed to be?”

“Of course I have,” Percival admits, seeming a bit shy as he looks away for a moment, and Newt wonders what that means but he doesn’t like it. “Look, what you’re feeling is something borne out of admiration because—”

“I _like_ you, Percival,” Newt blurts out, flushing, but continues, “Isn’t that what it’s about?”

But immediately Percival says, “There are different ways of liking someone.”

And Newt can feel tears again and Percival's face falls, twists guiltily. “Oh Newt...”

“Why do you have to make things so complicated?” Newt asks hoarsely at the ground, re-pocketing the forgotten ring. “I suppose it’s a stupid adult thing.”

“Newt—”

“And I’m still just a child. How much more _growing up_  do I have to do or are you still _thinking about it_ ,” Newt says, the reality of the words leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

Percival is silent for a moment after his outburst, and he fears he may have went too far in the unusual intensity and mixture of his emotions.

But the voice that speaks to him is void of anger, full of calmness that Newt has come to associate with the man. “Fine, I will give you a clear answer: no.”

Newt swallows, takes a moment to process what he heard, nods. A hand raises his head by the chin and the other wipes away a stray tear before brushing his hair back. Newt can’t help but lean into it as he always does. Percival’s expression is one of sympathy and even as he’s cruel, he’s kind.

“It’s true that you have some growing left to do and things you have yet to experience. You want to be a magizoologist, so focus on that for now and see who you meet along the way,” Percival says, trying to soothe the sting of his rejection. “I’m not the one for you, Newt, you’ll see; trust me on this.”

Newt doubts that, or else this wouldn’t hurt so much. Though denied, the thought of Percival leaving again after the trip saddens him. Percival just doesn’t understand, but it might be easier to listen for the time being. If he does so, then perhaps he can prove that it won’t matter that his 'like' isn’t the complicated kind, and refute any other excuse the man comes up with.

Percival must sense him weakening because he smiles slightly. “Come on, we came here to have fun, right?”

It takes more effort than usual to smile back but Newt tries his best, doesn’t think about how relieved Percival looks. But the man seems tired afterwards, lost in thought from time to time, and Newt has to call him more than once. He asks later on how Newt managed to steal Theseus's ring because his brother has been searching for it, and Newt confesses that a niffler came into their yard one day and he might have borrowed its help. Percival chuckles and it lights up his face from the moodiness, and says he isn’t surprised. He relaxes from then on and it’s all well and good until Newt has to go back to school.

There’s nothing sweet about parting and whoever said that at some point clearly didn’t know what they were saying, including mum who told him it was _romantic_. Newt has no idea when he’ll get to see Percival again because he can never make those promises, and it’ll be back to letters and the occasional update from Theseus who now works for the Ministry. Times like these, he's still that seven-year-old who couldn’t comprehend why Percival had to leave in the first place, but now it’s worse because he _does_  know but won’t accept it anyway.

Newt holds onto him as long as he can until the very last minute, risks being scolded by the professor.

“Study hard, Newt,” Percival says teasingly with a wave. “And don't forget to give Theseus his ring back.”

Those are the last words he hears and Newt forgets until his return home for the summer when Theseus glares knowingly, silently holding out his hand. It's a reminder he’d rather not have, and his brother is unhelpful, asking if the reason for his thievery is that he found a cute girl at school.

Newt doesn’t bother replying as he gives the ring back, then storms up to his room.

 

 

Fifth year is a tedious one, with a significant number of couples amongst them compared to the fourth. They giggle and coo and look at each other funny, and he and Leta talk about how weird they act.

Then Leta asks one day if he isn't curious, if he fancies no one, with a strange look in her eye. He realises belatedly what she’s implying and stutters through an apology, flustered. Things are a tad awkward after that with his friend, Leta being unable to hide her disappointment, but it isn't long before they're back to their usual antics. The incident provokes thoughts of Percival, however, and Newt wonders if that was how he made the man feel all those times. A bit of guilt courses through him, so maybe he'll apologise for that part.

Newt is focusing on his studies harder than ever, but he has yet to 'meet’ anyone. Seeing what that entails from his schoolmates alone makes him sceptical, but apparently it's the prelude to getting married. He has never imagined displaying such behaviour in front of Percival or doing such activities with him, but the thought draws heat to his cheeks, strangely.

Theseus asks in a letter about a girlfriend and Newt replies spitefully that yes, he does, and her name is Wanda and she has a beautiful, green stick-figure with leaf-like hair that sways with the breeze and that she loves him very much. But then Percival asks the same in his letter and it's harder to remain unaffected, so he writes a simple 'no' and fills the letter with other nonsense.

It's unfortunate, but he slowly realises that one needs to attract a target of affections, and Percival is establishing himself as such a person in Newt's mind. Newt's 'like' has become complicated.

Three other girls ask him on a date and he says 'yes' to the third towards the end of the year, but it doesn’t even last a month because he's unfamiliar with the process of dating and he spends more time with his friend than he does her. She tells him she wouldn't have been so upset if he had actually tried to like her, but Newt has never been less than honest with his emotions and he simply hadn’t the desire to see her more than necessary. But he recognises that it's his fault, for having consented when he has someone else in his heart. At the very least, it cements the idea that Percival is the only one for him.

After a year full of revelations and confusions, for the first time, Newt almost wishes he won't see Percival for another year or two.

But then the unexpected happens and winter of year six is a blur of fear, uncertainty, sorrow and betrayal. Dad rubs his back and mum holds him as he cries, empty wand-hand hanging limply by his side. Theseus comes home raging when he hears about it and mum has to whack him across the head to cool him down. Newt doesn’t register much after he falls onto the couch, thoughts of Leta, the poor jarvey, his goals and dreams, the disappointed and disdainful faces revolving like a carousel in his head until he wants to throw up from nausea. He curls up on his side and remains unmoving until Theseus drags him up and over to eat, where he consumes without tasting.

He doesn’t know how much time passes until mum tosses him a letter as he’s lying listlessly by Birdy’s side in her nest, absently stroking her wings.

“Up you get, dear,” mum calls gently. “You’re to go see the headmaster.”

But the idea of going back to school is too much for him at the moment, and Theseus generously offers to go with him. The hallways are bare as most of the student have gone home for the holidays, and the ones left don’t recognise him as he makes his way up.

Surprisingly, it isn’t only the headmaster but also Professors Dumbledore and Kettleburn when they’re permitted into the office, and they both smile at him. It’s a surreal experience to hear that while he won’t be able to attend school anymore, he will be allowed to take his N.E.W.T.s so long as he completes a provided curriculum on his own under a Ministry officer’s supervision. At this, Newt exchanges a look with Theseus and has difficulty expressing his gratitude, bows his head to hide his trembling lips. Theseus speaks for the both of them and he’s immensely grateful for his brother as well.

Newt walks out on shaking legs with his wand in hand after thanking his professors and trying not to cry. Theseus apparates them home once off the school grounds and Newt trudges towards the living room but stops when he hears mum talking to someone. He blinks, and then he’s staring at the back of a head full of dark hair. He’s seated on the sofa across from his mum with tea and biscuits on the table between them and Newt stands there, frozen. As if sensing his gaze, the head turns and Percival’s eyes crinkle in a soft smile when he spots Newt standing at the doorway, and Newt’s heart pounds differently from the anxiety he had earlier during the meeting.

“There he is,” mum says as she picks up her cup and sips delicately.

“There you are,” Percival calls, waves him over.

He doesn’t cry; he doesn’t. Not until he sits next to Percival and presses his face into the man’s shoulder, feels a comforting hand stroke over his head. And when he asks for the fifth time, much to his mum’s amusement and Theseus’s dismay, Percival just holds him tighter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what is making a plan and sticking to it. All I wanted to do was write something cute based on a cute fanart and then brain takes me on a tangent of no return.
> 
> Firstly, I apologise for this chapter but it's the way it went. Good news is that it's the rock bottom and we can only go up from here. There are new tags and ratings to reflect the contents of the story, so please heed the changes!
> 
> Secondly... there is no secondly. I'm emotionally exhausted from writing this and I hate myself lol. Gudetama out.

Percival all but disappears after that Christmas and Newt is left confused and wanting.

He receives his customary birthday letter in January along with a package containing a new book on exotic creatures and Newt writes his reply, heart full of delight. But he doesn’t receive one in February or March. Or April. It’s unlike the man who wrote him every month since Newt's younger years, both long and short depending on the time permitted.

Mum tells him to try calling and Newt very much considers it even though he prefers letters, physical evidence of their conversations.

Percival doesn’t pick up.

Theseus gives no detail on the matter, only says that Percival has been very busy as of late.

“Did you say something to him, Theseus?” he asks, suspicious.

Whatever reaction Newt expected—guilt, anger, outrage—it isn’t the slump of shoulders and a conflict of unreadable expressions, the corner of his mouth downturned unhappily.

“No, I didn’t,” his brother says truthfully.

“Did—” Newt swallows, “did he say something to you?”

Theseus gives him a long, uncharacteristically serious look and Newt almost wants to fidget. Finally, Theseus opens his mouth—

“You didn’t practice your spells today, did you.”

Newt gapes. “What the hell, Theese?”

“This isn’t the time to be slacking off, little brother,” Theseus scolds. “Your N.E.W.T.s—” he breaks off in a chuckle, “—that will never not be funny—are coming up soon and it’s important that you pass them.”

“I _know_ that,” Newt says, exasperated. “But what about—”

“He’ll write back when he has time,” Theseus reassures. “You know he wouldn't just stop writing without good reason.”

That's true, but Newt keeps thinking back to the last time they saw each other after his expulsion from school. Percival had been his usual kind, brotherly self but in odd moments, he had felt distant, and it makes Newt wonder if asking for marriage that time has crossed Percival's line of tolerance.

All this worrying and reassessing makes his head spin so he immerses himself into his studies because like Theseus said, passing is a priority. Once he becomes a magizoologist and start travelling, he'll go and surprise Percival with a visit instead of waiting helplessly.

One day, however, the reality of not going back to Hogwarts for his final year hits Newt and although he was never the most social of kids, he finds himself missing the bustling atmosphere. Mostly, he misses Leta and his professors who stood up for him and all the creatures he befriended. In a fit of loneliness, Newt writes to Leta, hoping that it had been a mistake driven by fear when she had turned her back on him and accused him with the rest of the student body as he took the fall for her dangerous experiments.

A reply comes back a week later with a single line: _Please do not contact me anymore_.

Somehow, it’s simultaneously painful and numbing, unsurprising yet disappointing. He doesn’t cry after a long exhale and goes straight back to his books. When Theseus comes home, he helps Newt practice his spells until he’s lying on the grass, panting and exhausted. And at the end of the day, Leta is gone from his life. For now.

 

 

Professor Kettleburn summons him in May to help out with creature care during summer season and Newt is so grateful that he hugs the wizard when he sees him which earns him a slap to the head. But Newt laughs and for the next three weekends, he’s busy with learning everything he can about the little and not-so-little critters and receives more compliments than he ever has in all his school years put together. The professor is suitably impressed and tells him he has a knack for this, and it's almost enough to distract him from the fact that Percival has yet to write or call back. But not quite.

And that's why Newt takes initiative once more and writes. He writes about all the things he didn't tell the man last time, that Newt tried to meet people, that his affections never grew for any specific person, and that his heart races and face burns at the thought of him—which he promptly scratches out, face actually burning. He mentions instead that he wouldn't mind going on dates with Percival if marriage is too large a leap from what they have now, because he thinks he understands after his experience with the other girls that maybe the man looks at Newt and sees him differently from the way Newt regards the other. So this is him asking for a chance.

Assuming that his letter might go unanswered for some time like the previous one, Newt goes about his days trying not to think about it. A day trip to the dragons reserve provides a good distraction and he even likes it so much that it becomes a routinely thing. They’re absolutely majestic creatures that are powerful, intelligent, and fiercely protective of their own, and Newt falls in love with each and every one from the Horntails to Ironbellies.

Then the first week of June happens upon them, and Newt comes home to a letter sitting on his desk. Percival has replied at last. Newt deigns not to read it until after dinner, after everyone else has gone to bed, and he sits rigidly at the desk, nervous like he hasn’t been since he tried to propose with Theseus’s ring. He opens the envelope.

 

_Dear Newt,_

_I hope you are doing well. Firstly, I apologize for my sudden absence of communication. Work has been very busy with reorganization of employees, promotions, and new hires recently which had left me little time for any leisure. Thank you for your replies and I'm glad you enjoyed the gift._

_Secondly, and I suppose this is the crux of the letter, my answer remains the same. I hadn't realized the depth of the feelings you harbored towards me and while I am honored and flattered by your affection, it's something that I cannot accept—_

Newt crumples the parchment before he knows it and gasps when he realizes what he has done. Tears blur his vision as he hastily straightens out what may possibly be the last letter he gets from Percival and a corner of it rips due to his callousness. He rubs furiously at his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm down so that he can read the rest of it with the respect that it deserves. Newt breathes twice more before continuing.

_—I cannot accept. It was foolish of me to be ignorant of your growth and how you already conduct yourself with considerable emotional maturity. My selfishness only fueled the stubborn way in which I viewed you as the younger brother I never had, you and Theseus both, and I’m sorry for how I may have hurt you in the process. And so, I am treating this with the consideration and honesty it deserves, though my conclusion is not what you may want to hear._

_It pains me to decide on this, but I believe it wise that we not see each other for the next while if only to save you from further distress._

_I wish you luck on your exams. I know you will become a great magizoologist. Your care and passion for creatures will surely take you far in your endeavors and I hope you find happiness in the path you choose, career and relationship-wise._

_Sincerely, Percival Graves_

 

Newt can’t say what’s worse—that he has been denied an opportunity in no uncertain terms, or the tone of finality within the letter. He thought he would be mocked at best, scorned at worst, not that Percival is such a person. No, in fact, while he had been teased by his family or invoked their exasperation numerous times, Percival had always been considerate of him no matter that Newt had been pushing him to a position of discomfort, he now realises. But to think that Newt managed to cause a separation between them—

“What in Merlin’s name?”

Blinking, Newt stares blankly down at a groaning Theseus and it takes a moment for him to notice that he’s in his brother's bed, letter scrunched up in a shaking hand. He falls over and buries his face into the mattress.

“Newt,” Theseus croaks, “I think you’re a little too old for this—”

Newt turns his head just enough to peek up at his brother. “Did you know?”

“Did I know _what_ ,” Theseus mumbles crankily.

He doesn’t reply right away, afraid to confirm anything. But he has to know.

“Percival.”

Silence. Then Theseus looks over and whatever he sees makes him frown. He breathes out slow and long.

“Fuck.”

The curse doesn’t grate on Newt’s ears like usual because cold spreads through his body from the centre and chills him to the tip of his toes.

“When did you know, Theseus,” Newt mutters tonelessly.

“I didn’t, not exactly,” his brother mutters back, sounding tired. “Before he left, all he said was that maybe your feelings aren’t as temporary or as shallow as he thought and saying no isn’t enough anymore. So I suspected.”

“What did I do wrong?”

He hears Theseus grumble something about it being one in the goddamn morning but a hand pats his head.

“There’s no right or wrong in liking someone, and it’s easy to, but it doesn't always work out. Mutual affection is the hard part,” Theseus says gently. “And, well, it’s not surprising in your case; he saw you since you were seven, practically a baby.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It has to do with almost everything.”

“So all that talk about growing up was a lie, then,” Newt says, bitterness heavy in his heart.

“Maybe, maybe not; you can't guarantee that sort of thing. People and feelings can change, and sometimes they don't.”

It's confusing and frustrating and not the kind of thing he wants to hear while his heart is breaking.

“I don’t want him to leave me, Theese.”

“Trust me, he probably didn’t want to,” Theseus says. “But these are the circumstances and he made his decision. Foolish, but understandable.”

“Did he even care for me at all?” the thought comes forth unbidden, grips his chest tightly. “Was I bothering him the whole time?”

Theseus snorts incredulously. “You’re joking, right? How can you even say that?”

“I don't know.” Newt hunches in as if he can bodily protect himself from the storm of emotions churning within him. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell that to him,” Theseus sighs. “He may be my best friend and essentially my other brother, but you were always special to him, Newt. He adores you, you know that.”

Newt almost wants to retort that it sure doesn’t seem like it, but he knows in the back of his mind that that's not fair, to distort the truth. Even so, he wants to wallow in his pain a bit more and not have to think better of another.

“It will be okay, Newt,” his brother assures. “Some day, it won't hurt anymore and he won’t be gone for long and you'll be able to appreciate the simplicity of your bond with him.”

“For someone who cried or got upset every time I proposed, you sure are supportive,” Newt quips half-heartedly, tears no longer threatening to spill.

“Contrary to your beliefs, little brother, I actually am an intelligent and caring person,” his brother drawls. “And now is the time to be supportive of my favourite people.”

“Alright, but I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“Thank Morgana,” Theseus groans. “Go to bed, Newt.”

Newt leans up on his, looks pleadingly at him. “May I stay here for the night? Please?”

“That's what I meant.” Theseus flicks his head. “Go to sleep, Newt.”

He burrows into his brother’s open arms and despite the comforting embrace and relaxing sounds of Theseus’s snoring, sleep eludes him for a long time.

 

 

The following few days are difficult. Before, even though Newt didn't know when he would see Percival again, the anticipation and certainty that he eventually _would_ kept him satisfied. Now, he lacks that certainty and it leaves him drifting through his routines listless and hollowed out. All manner of thoughts run through his mind and he combs over every moment that he had with Percival, if he couldn’t have acted a certain way or said something different, whether his relentless pursuit had come off as immature and clumsy.

But he won’t know because he can’t ask Percival anymore.

One day he’s okay, and on another he feels that there is nothing good in the world. His family don’t say anything. Mum scolds him proper like any other time he’s being particularly difficult, but she also bakes him his favourite cookies to eat with tea. Dad is his usual, wordless self but he’ll sometimes ask about Newt’s day and how his studies are going and on one memorable occasion, asks if he’d like to drink with him.

Theseus pushes him harder than ever with spell practice and complains loudly that their Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is an incompetent git who can’t tell a goblin from an elf and maybe if someone like Newt were to work for the Ministry, then it wouldn’t be one disaster after another.

In July, since Hogwarts is closed for summer, Newt is able to spend most days in the week with the professor and study at the same time. The creatures are more loveable than ever and that along with weekend visits to the dragon reserves give him life and purpose.

And Newt wakes up one morning in, Percival a fond, not-so-painful memory and a dull twinge in his heart, and he realises he’s okay and he can go on.

Newt’s seventeenth summer marks the end of his first love.

 

 

When Theseus goes away to war a few months later, the Ministry having decided to aid the muggles, Newt wishes that he can go, too. It’s less for Queen and country than it is to make sure he stays safe, but he’s denied due to his age and keeps it a secret from mum that he ever tried because she’s already upset. But the way she looks at him when he comes home that day tells him she knows anyway.

For the first time in his life, Newt follows the news every single day as tensions rise and unsettle all civilians left behind. He has difficulty understanding why the muggles—or even people in general—are so full of greed and pride and evil, that they would rather choose to hurt others to make a point instead of resolving the problem peacefully. Why death must be paid with more death. Theseus failed to answer the question before he left.

At least, not with an answer that satisfies him.

“People aren’t inherently good, Newt, and it’s easier to react than to think,” he had said.

But it might be that Newt doesn’t believe in gaining money, power, and self-righteous glory at the expense of lives and there are others who think exactly that, and well, he knows something about difference of opinions and the impossibility of changing someone’s mind.

It holds true when the opportunity arises for him to serve with the Ministry as part of the force. Mum isn’t happy and dad’s resigned but proud, and they both know his stubbornness will win out against both of theirs. During their last session, Professor Kettleburn gives him a long, hard look and mutters, “Well, at least _someone_  will know what they’re doing.

He isn’t happy with the idea of using dragons as weapons and he hopes that the soldiers will be intimidated by their presence alone into ceasing battles, but he's aware that reality is never ideal. Newt is trained as a soldier first so that he can at least defend himself should the situation call for it, then he goes through further special training as a beasts handler. Not once in those months does he get a glimpse of his brother who hasn’t been reported dead or missing, thank Merlin, and by the time he's face-to-face with the six Ukrainian Ironbellies, Newt starts having doubts.

It's the first time he is experiencing the consequences of his decision of this magnitude alone. He doesn't feel welcomed and hears the whispers behind his back how he's just a kid and why is he even here.

Newt ends up sneaking to the caves where the dragons are situated and sheds tears where no one can see. He feels too young and helpless and lonely. He falls asleep shivering in the cold, autumn wind, wishing that he could have learned that warming charm from Percival. What he wakes up to isn’t miraculously friendly faces, unfortunately, and he spends a miserable first week being told that 'this is how real men do it'. It’s petty and childish, to show off false bravado when they’re actually afraid of the dragons.

Newt's nights are by the caves talking to whatever is listening and the low rumbles he hears in return is loads better than barb-filled actual human words. He tells them about his childhood, about Percival, about the goals he will accomplish once all this is over, and how he wants to see Theseus. Says that they must be frightened and uncomfortable in as soothing a tone as possible and hopefully they'll all be home soon. He also starts bringing along morsels of food to offer as midnight snacks, and they slowly but surely warm up to him.

The attitude of the other trainers don't change in a way that matters, but they seem to realise that everyone here on the field is miserable enough as is and so they ignore him for the most part after the second week. But that changes again when during a training session, one of the dragons (Harry, Newt named) reacts negatively to a stimulus and turns aggressive. All the other trainers respond with their wands, pointing threateningly at the poor, scared thing and Newt just runs towards him, shouts behind him. He waves in wide arcs to make himself noticeable as he approaches the upset dragon and tries to be heard in between bouts of roaring.

Harry eventually sees the tiny, flapping human nearing him and crashes his wings down hard to send Newt flying, but Newt dives for the space under his belly, praying that he won't get trampled. As the dust and debris settle and the ground is no longer shaking, Newt deems that he is alive and whole judging by his working limbs and ringing ears. He uses Harry’s momentary confusion at his disappearance to call out to him gently, and huffs in relief when the dragon seems to recognise his voice.

It definitely pays to talk to creatures.

He crawls out again while keeping up a steady stream of nonsense in a calm voice. Once Newt makes it out, he turns to face Harry and holds his hands out palm up to show that they’re empty. He stays still while those intelligent eyes assess him—swallowing, feeling every trickle of sweat down his back—then after a few moments, the dragon huffs and his head to the ground, snout mere metres away from Newt. Harry sniffs at him, rumbles low in his throat, and Newt recognises the sound. He looks over his shoulder and spots their Captain at a distance and makes the motions for eating, and shortly receive a slab of raw meat that floats over.

At the smell of food, Harry lifts his head and stretches his neck over Newt to snatch the meat out of the air, and bites into it loudly. It’s easier to handle him after that, and Newt takes advantage of his momentary satisfaction to lead Harry back to the caves.

When Newt returns to a silent and stunned camp, safely away from the creature who could have ended his life a few short minutes ago, his knees give out and he starts to shake violently. People’s voice echo in his ears as his vision goes black.

Captain yells at him after he wakes up some hours later, the sun having set a while ago. But he also pats Newt on the shoulder and commends him for his deed because they could have lost a dragon.

“But don’t ever do that again,” he tells Newt.

Newt doesn’t answer since he can’t promise that. If they won’t handle the dragons with proper care, then it will be up to him to do so. He takes another bite of his late dinner and chews slowly.

Captain sighs. “I mean it, Scamander. Out here on the battlefield, impulsive actions like yours can cost lives, hundreds of them. If you can’t work with that, I’ll have to send you away so that you won’t endanger my men.”

The chastisement isn’t easy to take, and Newt bristles, barely bites back a retort. It’s true, he realises after a breath or two; this is a place where the decisions are about avoiding the worse of two evils and one wrong move can mean dying, causing death. He hears the destruction around them sometimes and it’s horrible.

“Yes, sir,” Newt replies weakly, appetite gone.

After his recovery, Newt is put in charge of teaching the others his method of approaching the dragons. They resent it, but some are surprisingly eager to learn, grudgingly impressed by his earlier display. Unfortunately, the truce between them and the dragons broke irreparably after the incident and although Newt tries his best to reconcile them, the dragons won’t have it. Two weeks later, frustration and tension running high on both sides, the operation is disbanded.

But Newt doesn’t go home.

 

 

It takes another year.

A year of living in desolate, grim conditions, never at peace, never fully resting, running into battles exhausted. Learning to survive only to face another bleak day full of bloodshed. Newt hates it so much, but he would’ve hated it more if he had been waiting at home, safe, while his brother was facing this alone.

Newt is reading by the fire on rare night of rest at the camp, a book he happened to pick up in the aftermath of a successful ambush. At the time, he thought someone must have dropped it while running away and although he felt like he was stealing, he was also grateful for the unexpected reprieve from the overall gloominess of his days. It’s his third time through it, having already read it twice during sleepless nights when nightmares haunted him. He barely registers the footsteps approaching.

“Newt? Is that you?”

Newt's head snaps up so fast that he swears he broke something but the sight of Theseus, worn and weary but fine, outweighs everything.

“The—Theseus,” Newt stutters, book sliding out of his trembling hands.

“Merlin's beard,” Theseus breathes, eyes wide with disbelief. He tentatively touches Newt’s shoulder as if to confirm his existence, then pulls him up and crushes him into a hug. “What on earth are you doing here? Do mum and dad know? Oh my god...”

Newt grips back tightly with strength he didn't know he had left. “Theseus, you're okay, you’re okay.”

Relief courses through him and makes him sag against his brother heavily, causing them to tumble to the ground. His chin knocks painfully against Theseus's shoulder and his knee digs into soft flesh, but neither let go. If Newt had any tears left, he’d be shedding them by now. As is, he releases a dry sob.

“I don’t understand—why are you—” Theseus babbles, holding him tighter. “Newt, why are you _here_?”

“ _You_  shouldn’t be here,” Newt sobs out. “None of us should! What are we even fighting for?”

Words spill out of Newt in hysterical gasps, pain and horror and despair that had been building up and pushed down deeply within him along with a dying hope tumbling like water over a fall and crashing into Theseus’s lap. It’s heavy and jarring and leaves him shocked, not having realised the burden he carried all this time until he finally saw someone he can trust enough to let go of himself.

Theseus for his part comforts him like he always has when Newt is feeling down or having a nightmare, and though it’s not effective to the extent that Newt feels things will be okay, it’s enough for now.

And being the noble, brave man he is, Theseus won’t leave with him. Newt expected as much and refuses to go by himself, determined to bring the both of them home at the end of all this.

Late in the night when they’re lying together in the same tent, Theseus’s head pillowed on Newt’s shoulder, Newt relays how he came to be here in the first place and the unsuccessful attempt at utilising dragons. Theseus croaks a laughs and it’s so good to hear his brother’s teasing that maybe Newt is secretly a dragon himself. They don’t talk about what they’ve been through on the battlefield, neither ready to relive those horrid memories, and Theseus confesses that despite having told Newt to go home, he’s grateful for him. It’s a shock when his stalwart brother starts crying, says, “I’m so tired, Newt,” and it’s then that Newt does, too.

They fall asleep like that, dirty and exhausted, consoled by each other’s presence.

 

 

He loses count of the days sometime around next spring. Newt doesn’t know if he turned nineteen or twenty this year, or if he’s still the same, scared eighteen-year-old he was back when this all started.

Theseus isn’t around much, being on the primary offensive force, but every now and then Newt will see him injured but alive and that’s all he can ask for. It had taken a while for Newt to adjust to being separated from his brother after finding him, but it’s better now and he learned that worrying only distracted him when he couldn’t afford to. He paid for that lesson dearly with several days of bedrest and a permanent scar reaching from the right side of his waist to the base of his spine.

The war is no longer just about Theseus. It’s about maximum impact with minimal force resulting in the least amount of casualties. He’s taught more offensive spells than he wants to know, witnesses mass violence on a regular basis, hears too many different cries of the dying and wounded; it’s even worse when they go quietly. Newt desperately wants this to end so that people and creatures can stop suffering and go home to their families, so he does whatever he can to ensure they are heading towards a finish.

But this isn’t quite the finish he imagined.

Blood sticky in his left eye, a throbbing in his head, a dull roar in his ears, no feeling in his limbs. The ground at his back is hard and unforgiving which makes it the most uncomfortable surface Newt has ever life on. Ambushed, he thinks absently as the muted noise of battle continue in the background. He wonders if the rest of his team made it. It also sounds like someone is calling him.

”Newt!” There it is again.

A shadow suddenly looms over him and Newt would have flinched if he could otherwise move, but all he does is blink and ouch, that stings. His vision won’t clear enough to see who it is but assumes it must be one of his teammates. Newt grins up at them to let them know he’s fine, feels hands frantically patting at his torso and groans at the spikes of pain. The person gasps and cups his face while brushing his hair back, and it’s so warm and familiar that Newt’s eyes sting for another reason. Before he can call out to the person in his delirium, he passes out.

It’s too hot, then too cold, then too hot again. There are voices both loud and quiet and sometimes it seems to be directed at him. Newt thinks he must be dead because he’s hearing things, hears him.

He dreams, not the stuff of nightmares but a memory from his childhood, when Percival carried Newt on his back and it was one of Newt’s absolute favourite things. Some part of his conscience even in the dream is sad that he’s too big now, but he blinks awake, notices that he’s actually _not_  dead and is being carried on someone’s back.

Newt must’ve made some kind of noise because that someone says, “We’re almost there, Newt, hold on. You’re going to be okay,” and strangely, he trusts that voice. Nodding, he lets go of the tenuous grip on his consciousness.

 

 

Another memory. Percival is reading him a bedtime story and Newt wishes aloud that this would happen every day. Percival laughs and says that’s impossible, but perhaps every once in a while is alright. Newt asks ‘why not’ and Percival is suddenly older, weary and haggard. He’s not in his pristine suit but a torn and bloody uniform of sorts, and when Newt’s eyes finally stop roaming to focus on the man’s face, he looks at Newt sadly. He takes Newt’s hand and squeezes gently, and tells him to go to sleep.

Newt does.

 

 

The news is that the Americans have joined the forces, but they’re located at another base so Newt can’t confirm whether or not he had been hallucinating due to an infection-induced fever. The healer who had tended to him doesn’t recall who brought him in, and that’s about as far as he gets before he brushes the matter aside because they’re still fighting and Newt has to at least stay alive to satisfy his curiosity.

Unbelievably, the war actually does come to an end a few months later when the nations come to an agreement. Amidst the cheers and cries of happiness ringing throughout the camp, Newt cries and hugs his brother like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

“I know, I know,” Theseus sniffs, squeezing hard. “Let’s go home.”

Newt lifts his head from where it had been buried in Theseus’s shoulder because he can’t breathe properly from crying so hard, and his gaze immediately locks onto a face in the distance past the sea of their comrades.

Percival is too far for Newt to see much of him, but the man waves and doesn’t seem at all surprised to see Newt. And that answers Newt’s question; it really had been Percival who saved Newt after the attack that left him incapacitated. Somehow, Newt isn’t surprised, either, even though he had not seen so much as a glimpse of him until now.

The man disappears in a blink.

Newt’s heart still beats and Theseus is okay and they’re finally leaving this godforsaken place.

He feels alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All WWI contents in this chapter are fictional and minimum research was done for basic timelines but the writer ultimately could not grasp what the wizarding armies were supposed to be like so... please forgive the general ignorance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for sticking through the hard parts with me. Now we're starting (yes, starting) to get to the good stuff. Seriously, if I want to write a Christmas fic I'd probably have to start now what with my tendency to go off on all the tangents.
> 
> So, this story became more of a Newt's self-discovery journey kinda fic rather than the original cute proposal fic and from here onwards the meaning of proposal will probably be very arbitrary hahahahahaha........................
> 
> And I can't believe I'm at home while Colin Farrell is a 20-minute drive away from me in friggin' DT Toronto I should've gone to at least the red carpet thing but there's always too many people which I hate and you can't see anything sigh. Anyway, I digress. Please enjoy!

After the war, Newt doesn't have the mind or energy to think about missed exams, recovering not only from a beaten body but a tattered soul. Theseus is permitted leave from work as well and together they stay home and help mum with the hippogriffs. It had taken a while for her to relinquish her anger against them and while the war didn't kill them, her wrath nearly had. But thankfully, she didn’t begrudge them and said she’s glad they’re home and that she doesn’t need any more white hairs after this, _do you understand, boys?_

The fall brings a new school year at Hogwarts and although he should go talk to the headmaster about finally taking his N.E.W.T.s if he’s still eligible, he’s scared to. Unlike Theseus who managed to resemble a functioning human being by the time he returned to work just last week, Newt has been reluctant to leave the house at all post-war except to tend to the hippogriffs, the mere idea of it tunnelling his vision and making him sick to his stomach. He doesn’t want to see people, strangers, alive or dead, would be happy if he never has to again.

There are letters after that from the school, seeking his attention and presence, but Newt ignores all of them to his family’s concern. He hears them talking, Theseus trying his best to convince mum that everyone is different and Newt needs more time, is all. And then he asks if Newt would like to talk to a professional to help with coping. Newt hates that he worries them but also resents that they won’t mind their own business.

One night, he recognises them for the appalling and hateful thoughts they are and hates himself while wondering what is wrong with him.

His life suddenly grinds to a halt, and Newt doesn’t know what to do; he doesn't want help yet he can't help himself. The occasional nightmares he wakes screaming from only buries him further into the hole he can't crawl out of.

One day, Newt's eyes roam aimlessly while he sits on the couch sipping on a cuppa, and they land on the bookshelf. The books are in disarray due to Newt's inability to put the book he read back in its place and dad had given up organising it. He recalls reading a novel during the war that kept him distracted from the harsh reality, something about an adventure to discover impossible creatures and one of the characters joining on the expedition to impress the woman of his dreams. He lost the book, much to his disappointment, but he supposes any war-associated memories are best left behind.

Speaking of...

Newt puts his cup down and runs up to his room, searches for writing utensils. He procures a parchment and sits at his desk to write.

_Dear Percival,_

He thanks the man for saving him on the battlefield and hopes he’s faring well after going home. He also writes that while he had been deeply hurt at the time, he might understand why Percival thought it necessary to distance himself and that if he’s willing, then Newt would like to continue their friendship.

From that rescue, it had been evident that Percival still cared for him and Newt at least wants to express his gratitude, even if his meagre words cannot cover the infinite ways in which Percival had been good to him all this time.

There’s no immediate reply and he’s okay with that; it’s to be expected after not having exchanged letters in over five years. He only wishes that the letter reach the recipient safely, to let him know that Newt still cares for him as well.

His life continues much the same way for the next few weeks and Theseus asks twice more if Newt won't consider talking to someone if not him or their parents. Newt almost considers it because he’s reaching the point where it’s frustrating to do nothing.

Then one day, a Ministry official comes to their home wanting to see Newt so he’s finally forced to interact with an outsider anyway. Mum eyes him as if saying, “What did you do?” and he’s slightly offended even though he wonders the same thing. He didn’t go anywhere for months, for Merlin's sake.

As they’re talking—or talked at, for him—Newt nearly drops his tea from shock when he’s told that he’s exempted from his N.E.W.T.s due to his participation in the war. The Ministry recognises his great services, especially regarding the dragons, and honours him with the privilege of training under a magizoologist directly from here onwards should he choose to continue down this career path. It's beyond what he imagined and he takes the letter from the official gingerly like it's fine china, and reads it with his own eyes.

“We would have liked to inform you earlier but the school was unable to establish contact with you for some time and so we decided to try a more direct approach,” the official says.

Newt blushes and really, he has no one to blame but himself.

“Um, thank you,” is all he can manage, but the official nods and takes his leave.

He remains sitting long after, crinkling the paper between his fingers and thinking. This is it, he decides. It’s an opportunity literally in his hands and he’d be foolish not to take it.

On a weekend so as not to disrupt classes as well as to avoid crowds, Newt visits Professor Kettleburn. He’s the same as ever, the old grouch, grumbles that it took him long enough. Newt wisely doesn’t mention the slight mistiness of the man’s eyes.

He gets an unexpectedly strong punch to the shoulder as soon as he explains his situation, and he flinches—not from pain—much to his embarrassment. The professor stares at him wide-eyed, then his eyes soften in sympathy and Newt isn’t sure how to take that. He says there’s a magizoologist who would be happy to have an assistant and that he can recommend Newt if he wants. He doesn’t wait for Newt’s answer, fortunately, and takes him to see the creatures.

Some he recognise, some are new. There are those fully grown with families of their own, others that remain independent. Newt helps to clean out their individual living quarters and feeds them breakfast and it’s the most peaceful he has felt in ages. So peaceful, in fact, that after he's finished he lies down by the group of nifflers and watches them squeak away at one another. The sting in his nose comes as a surprise, and the first tear of many drips from his eyes, wetting the sleeve of the arm his head is on. It's a silent outpouring of tears that has him sniffling every few seconds and every blink pushes out even more moisture. One of the nifflers stares at him as if the sight of a grown man crying pitifully is interesting. The thought makes Newt laugh and choke a little.

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but the sun is setting the next time he peels his eyes open, sticky and crusted and swollen. Groggily, he wipes them only to realise too late that his hands are still unclean from earlier and rubs dirt into them. Professor Kettleburn, who had been nearby, tuts and magically cleans him up. Newt shoots him a sheepish grin in thanks

“Somehow, you've changed yet you haven't at all,” the professor says sagely.

They both end up watching the flare of the sun as it dips down below the Hogwarts castle and the brilliant red that shines through in between the towers showers the architecture in a majestic glow. It's the most beautiful sight Newt has ever seen since the war ended.

“That would look different in other parts of the world.”

Newt looks up at the professor from where he's sitting but he continues to gaze into the horizon, and Newt takes the words for the suggestion they are.

“Thank you, sir,” Newt says quietly.

“And remember that you can always come back here, my boy,” the man responds.

A large weight has been lifted off his chest by the time he returns home, and it’s then he discovers that he really hasn't been able to breathe all this time. He goes to bed with a newfound hope and anticipation and yelps at a foreign movement under the covers. He lifts it quickly, heart pounding, and a single niffler stares up at him innocently standing next to a shiny pile of obviously stolen goods.

Newt blinks once, twice, completely flummoxed. “How did you get in here?”

It’s young, can’t be more than a few months old, and some more observation reveals that it’s one of the children from the school's conservatory. Still doesn’t explain how it managed to follow him all the way home though to be fair, he wasn't the most attentive of his surroundings at the time.

“You shouldn't be here,” Newt protests half-heartedly as the niffler lets itself be picked up, surprisingly docile. He gently turns it this way and that. “Female, huh. Dangerous for a young lady like you to be out and about.”

He holds her up in front of him and yelps again when she nearly claws his eyes out. Newt pulls back, confused, watching her trying to scramble forward.

“My eyes are not for swiping,” he scolds. “You’re going back tomorrow, understand?”

She doesn’t.

Although he feels bad, he has to keep her restrained for the night so she won’t escape, then promptly takes her back to the professor in the morning.

He finds her stuffing her belly full of mum's gold jewellery that afternoon.

After the fifth time Newt returns her, Professor Kettleburn asks why he even bothers at this point. Newt shrugs.

“She should be at school, safe and with her family,” is his answer.

“That’s her choice, isn’t it,” the professor points out.

Newt takes her home.

 

 

The letter of recommendation is placed at the top of his haphazard pile of clothing and essentials before he closes the suitcase. Newt goes through a mental checklist to see if he forgot anything, then decides if there's something he can't remember, then it isn't important.

Tonight's the last night he’ll be sleeping in his own bed before he heads out on a new journey. He talked to his family last week and to no one’s surprise, Theseus took the news the hardest even though he encouraged Newt the most.

Another mail arrives for him in the morning, the address scrawled in familiar handwriting. His heart nearly stops, and he can’t open it right away.

“Can I open it, then?” Theseus teases from beside him.

Newt elbows his brother, then hugs him goodbye.

“Take care of yourself, alright?” Theseus says, squeezing him tight. “Or else I will come and kick your—”

“Theseus, stop hogging my son,” mum interrupts, and pulls Newt away. She kisses both his cheeks and hugs him gently in the way only she can. Newt inhales for the last time the soft, sweet scent that he has always associated with her. “I’ll miss you, darling. Write often or Theseus will be the least of your worries.”

“Why are you guys threatening me as you send me off?” Newt whines.

Newt says goodbye to his dad through a fire call since he had to leave early for a work emergency, and then with Josephine—his new niffler companion—tucked properly in his coat, he’s off at last.

Though he wouldn’t say he saved the best for last, Newt can’t help but feel giddy as he pulls Percival’s letter out of his coat’s pocket once he’s settled on the train. In his excitement, he doesn’t mind too much the people slowly filling the seats as he stares at the envelope, though he has to hush little Jo because she's also excited by the various baubles she probably sees. The response could be anything and though it should scare him considering the last letter he received, Newt's slowly realising that there’s hardly a point in spinning his mind in circles over something until you know and confirm. Besides, the fact that there even _is_  a letter in his hands indicates a positive.

He opens the envelope.

 _Dear Newt,_  he reads, and releases a held breath at the equally familiar greeting.

 _If I'm being honest, I never expected to see another letter from you again_ —

Newt squeezes his eyes shut, heart dropping. Surely, this can't be what it sounds like. Did Percival want to cut all ties with him? Was Newt fooling himself—and he gives himself a mental slap; so much for not worrying. He takes a deep breath, then continues.

— _because I have only hurt you in the last moments of our acquaintance, so surely you would not have wanted to see or hear from me for a very long time, if not ever. That was the reason for maintaining my distance as much as possible even while we were fighting the same war—where you had no business being, by the way. What were you thinking? And what was Theseus doing allowing you to be there?_

It draws a chuckle out of him trying to imagine these motherly words in Percival's voice, and it also impossibly warms his heart after that brief, stupid second of panic. The line after it is scratched out for some reason, streaks of black ink harsh against the pale paper and neat script of the preceding sentence. He runs the tip of a finger across it like it might magically reveal what it used to say, but no. It’s unlike Percival to send a letter that’s less than pristine, but perhaps he was in a haste to reply and lacked the time to rewrite, which is odd in itself.

_The point is, it’s good to hear from you and unbelievably kind of you to reach out like this. I am more than happy to resume communications and get a chance to rebuild what I have damaged._

Newt blinks, rereads, blinks again. If he’s understanding this correctly, Percival believes it his own fault for the way they drifted apart which confuses Newt. It was him who blindly burdened the man with his affections and forced a decision upon him. There is no further explanation as to why Percival thinks so in the rest of the letter, only that he wishes Newt well and looks forward to hearing back soon. Reading it over again—partly to seek an answer he might have missed, mainly to savour it—the letter seems emotionally transparent in a way he has never seen before, not that Percival is an unemotional person by any means.

Or maybe now that Newt's an adult, he’s learned to read too much into things. Or since he’s an adult, he has better grasp of contexts and the lines in between.

It’s only the first letter yet he’s already trying to draw as much as he can from it and he didn’t realise how much he missed his friend. Newt reads it once more before he folds it back up and tucks it away safe.

The train ride is no more than a few hours long and by the time he arrives, he has a reply written and ready to be sent. A little too enthusiastic on his part, he supposes, but no one can blame him when he has just re-established connection with someone who was an integral part of his childhood and adolescence.

His first love, comes a whisper from the back of his mind, bringing back bittersweet memories. No one came close to that in all these years; understandable considering he spent the better part of his days before and after the war at home or in Professor Kettleburn's company, not having felt the need to seek after another romantically again. There were _relations_ —brief, desperate things during the worst four years of his life when he couldn’t handle being alone like many others—but no deep, emotional connections.

He’s jarred from his thoughts by Josephine jumping out of his coat after the other passengers as they step off the train. Clearly, she has no patience for his moping, he thinks as he scrambles off the train as well. Newt manages to catch her before she gets too far, and he can’t help the sinking feeling this won’t be the last time this happens.

He’s so occupied with keeping her hidden as he makes his way to Madam Woodhead’s residence that he forgets momentarily he has to navigate through a myriad of strangers. He manages to find the place okay after having to chase down the little rascal a couple more times, and arrives sweating, starving, and exhausted.

The scenery in front of Newt can be described as something out of a fairy tale book: a cottage of sorts amidst a forested area, the sounds of waking nocturnal creatures surrounding him and different scents of nature filling his nostrils. It’s hard to believe this place is just off the road near a town.

Madam Woodhead is a tall, slender woman looking to be about his mum’s age with gray streaks in her long, dark hair. She gives his pathetic state a once over through rectangular glasses and sniffs.

“Not quite what I imagined,” are her first words accompanied by a sceptically raised brow, then she steps aside to let him in.

Newt stutters out a greeting and ducks self-consciously as he passes her, then stops. His eyes widen as he takes in the more-than-spacious interior which wasn’t indicated at all from outdoors. There are the basic rooms of a house, but there’s also a large storage space next to the kitchen filled with mounds of supplies and a hallway that stretches impossibly for what seems like a good few hundred metres or so lined with openings on either side.

“Bigger on the inside than outside,” comes Madam Woodhead’s voice, startling him out of his stupor.

He stares at her, then at the house, then back. “How did you—what is—”

“If you impress me, I might teach you,” she says, smirking. “It’s quite useful when one’s travelling.”

All he can do is nod as the reality of this new life finally sinks in.

She doesn’t go out of her way to be kind to him, but as the magizoologist gives him a tour of the place and Newt witnesses the extensive care she puts into the rehabilitation of creatures residing in the many rooms of the hallway, he can tell she's a good person.

After the introductions and allowing him to let Jo loose in the house, she sends him off to get cleaned up and settled, and they have a quiet dinner which Newt isn't used to when eating with another present. He wonders if perhaps Madam Woodhead isn't one for human company, either.

Newt writes a letter home about his safe arrival and sends it along with his reply to Percival via two of Madam's many owls, then goes to bed. It's looking to be a sleepless night, the anxiety of being in a stranger's home stronger than the physical weariness from the day’s journey. He doesn’t want to disturb his host with his nightmares as he was prone to do back home; they don't occur as much as they used to, but nonetheless, it’s a private matter that always leaves him a little too vulnerable for his liking in the immediate aftermath.

Jo shuffles into his room sometime in the middle of the night and shows off all the trinkets she managed to find by dumping them at the foot of the bed, and it gives Newt a much needed laugh, soothing some of his nerves. But then he realises he needs to return everything and groans.

“You're a menace, you know that?” Newt mutters.

Josephine blinks innocently.

 

 

His days pass in routines of feeding, cleaning, and studying the creatures, taking extensive notes in his thirst for all knowledge. It relaxes and gives him comfort, and within only three months, he’s able to run errands in town without breaking down from nerves.

Hard labour takes Newt's mind off of his problems quite effectively.

So do Percival’s letters.

They’ve been exchanging letters for some time now, and everything's the same as yet different from before. Percival is his kind, encouraging self when responding to Newt's description of his learning progress with the creatures, but he also shares stories of his own workplace happenings with him which he used to keep to himself when Newt was younger.

Newt learns that Percival was promoted not too long ago as the youngest Director of Magical Security, that his team of aurors are good, well-meaning people if a little too invested in goofing off occasionally. He tells Newt of the responsibility he shoulders in preserving the justice his department stands for, and the pride with which he wears his title.

The content varies from letter to letter, sometimes worrying him when all he reads is a short greeting, an apology and a simple, “I’m tired,” others making him laugh from complaints regarding poorly done paperwork. One memorable letter is of Percival admitting guilt after losing patience with one of his subordinates and berating her harshly. Each word, phrase, sentence is fused with honesty, openness, and dry humour, revealing sides of his friend he didn’t know. It’s with some sadness that Newt realises there had been a barrier between them until now, for reasons he can probably guess now that he’s older. Yet he’s also happy that he's no longer the child with an infatuation in Percival’s eyes, but a true friend he can trust to share his life with.

This new development and rediscovering Percival as a person with his own flaws and shortcomings doesn’t disillusion him to the extent he might have expected; in fact, it has the opposite effect of making him even more appealing in his humanness and the only downside to this is that Newt can’t see these things with his own eyes.

One day, Madam Woodhead (“You've been here long enough, boy; call me Theresa”) asks why he doesn’t ever go visit his sweetheart.

Newt frowns mid-chew, confused. He racks his brain trying to think of anyone who he has been in contact with that would warrant such a comment. Most of his errands involve interacting with store owners on the cusp of retirement, unless Theresa's referring to the granddaughter of the baker who he suspects has been sweet on him for some reason. He appreciates that her grandfather is a wonderful baker and her by association, but no more than that.

“Who?” he finally asks after swallowing.

Theresa rolls her eyes. “The recipient of your letters, the one that has you making a ridiculous face every time you get a response, remember?”

Newt gapes. Ridiculous face? _Sweetheart_?

“Theresa,” Newt starts slowly, feeling heat creep up his neck much to his mortification. “I’m writing to a friend.”

“You don’t have talk about her if you’re that embarrassed,” she smirks, “I only mean to offer you a break if you want to go see—”

“Him,” Newt interrupts without thinking, then stammers out, “and you’ve got it all wrong—he’s just—he’s only a friend. A good friend. That’s it.”

Theresa arches a disbelieving brow and Newt pleads with his eyes.

“It’s true,” he tries again. “He, um—I used to have affections for him, but—oh my god, what am I saying,” he ends with a groan, burying his head in his hands.

Worse, Theresa makes a sympathetic noise and she’s _never_  sympathetic.

“Wasn’t mutual, then,” she guesses correctly.

“It’s okay, now,” he sighs. “I’ve grown out of it and we’re—we’re good.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They finish the rest of their meals in usual silence, and later on, Newt ponders but has no idea where Theresa got such a notion from. Percival is one of his, if not _the_  closest friend he has and it’s perfectly reasonable to be happy when receiving letters from such a person. Admittedly, he’s a little envious of the people mentioned in those letters—a Goldstein was named a few times—because they’re getting to interact with Percival face-to-face on a daily basis, but it’s only that he’s hoping he’s considered a close friend to the man as well.

He forgets about it soon enough when one day, a letter from a Mr. Augustus Worme addresses him regarding writing a book on creatures across the globe and it’s a dream come to life. He immediately informs Theresa who congratulates him and it’s then that she starts teaching him the secrets of her amazing spellwork. She’s a master of Undetectable Extension Charms hence the amazing architecture of her cottage, and as promised in the beginning of their acquaintance, she shows him bit by bit over the next month how to design and layer them while strengthening the foundations so it won’t collapse.

“Remember, your rehabilitation centre will only be as good as your imagination, and I think you have a good one in that little head of yours,” she says on the morning of his leave, accompanying the words with a light jab to his forehead.

“Not if you keep trying to poke a hole into it,” Newt retorts, then hugs her despite her protests. “Thank you, Theresa, you’ve been wonderful. I’ll never forget this.”

The last ten months had been the best kind of therapy Newt would never have thought to ask for. It was training, yes, but not only did she graciously pass on all of the knowledge she had, she also respected his space when he needed it. There were some especially bad days when he wouldn’t talk or do anything, and she allowed him to just sit near one of the creatures and watch them for hours.

A good woman, indeed.

“Off you get, boy,” Theresa barks and Newt hastily lets go. She gives him a narrow-eyed stare and huffs, then breaks into a grin. “Come visit if you find anything interesting on your journey; it’s the least you can do.”

“Of course,” Newt replies earnestly, and after a final handshake, he’s off.

He pays a quick visit home first, spends a night, then meets with Mr. Worme to discuss logistics and pay. He also drops by Theseus’s new flat of one month to spend a night there, and Newt joins him the next morning to acquire a couple permits before hopping on a train.

“First we couldn’t get you out of the house, and now you won’t come home. You certainly don’t do things by halves,” his brother jokes as they hug farewell, again.

“I’m sorry, Theese,” Newt mumbles into his shoulder. “And thank you. I won't be gone long.”

Theseus pats his head. “Take all the time you need.”

Newt blinks away moisture at the warm tone, and guilt seeps into his heart because he wasn’t there for his brother who went through the same thing, acting as if his experience was the only one that mattered. Theseus has always put on a brave front, especially for Newt, and all this time Newt had unconsciously taken advantage of that selfishly.

“Theseus—”

“By the way, say hi to Percy for me if you happen to drop by New York, will you?” his brother says, drawing back.

“Percy—you mean Percival?” Newt questions. “Since when do you call him that?”

“Since we've been having too many meetings and his name's a mouthful to say each time,” is the reply, and something strange tugs in Newt’s chest at hearing how his friend shares this form of intimacy with his brother.

“That's a funny face you’re making there,” Theseus laughs, but it soon dies off and a thoughtful look crosses his face.

“What?” Newt hunches defensively, not liking the observant, knowing look.

Theseus shakes his head and grins. “It’s nothing. Hurry on, now, or you'll miss your train.”

He ruffles Newt's hair then disappears back into his office, leaving Newt standing there confused and unsettled. He jumps when someone behind him clears their throat and he moves out of the way, stuttering an apology. Then his eyes catch the clock on the adjacent wall and he sighs.

It's time to go.

 

 

To say that Newt is nervous is a gross understatement. Breathless, sweating even though it's winter, and heart pumping furiously, it’s reminiscent of the Hogsmeade trip in fourth year. The only difference is that he's the one making the trip to see Percival, and he's twenty-five, not fourteen. To think that that was already over ten years ago!

The day he received an invitation to come to New York, Newt had been utterly dispirited from an unfortunate incident in Sudan for some days and was looking to head home for a little break from his work. Percival’s letters had been few and far in between due to Newt constantly travelling and for some reason, the thought of visiting hadn’t occurred even once until he read the very line telling him to come. His heart had nearly burst from excitement and delight.

And now, here he is almost tripping over his own feet to get off the ship, nearly forgetting to flip the switch on his suitcase for customs. He doesn’t remember what answers he gives to the questions asked, but he passes safely. He focuses on finding Percival amidst the sea of faces that he forgets to pay attention to his surrounding and ends up bumping into someone.

“Sorry, sorry—”

“Newt?”

He looks up in surprise at the person who knows his name, and it takes a minute to place the features. She’s older, taller, thinner, very well-dressed, but still the beautiful girl he remembers from his school days.

“Leta,” Newt breathes.

Leta seems uncomfortable as she meets his eyes, likely not having expected to see him after she cut all ties. He didn’t expect this meeting either—completely forgot about her, actually.

Newt breaks away first, gazing over her shoulder. “How are you?”

“Fine, good,” she replies, tucking her hair behind the ear in his peripheral view. “And you?”

“Good. Great.”

They share an awkward silence, neither of them knowing how to interact with one another anymore. Seeing Leta again is nothing like Newt imagined; he holds no grudge against her for past incidents and her ultimate decision to remove him from her life since they’ve become trivial things in the face of all that he has experienced in recent years. At this point, she’s a stranger to him more than anything.

“Um, I’m glad you’re doing well,” Newt says quickly. “I need to get going now, so...” He shoots her a small smile and waves before turning away.

“Wait—” Leta starts.

“Newt!”

Newt’s eyes reflexively seek out the source of sound and his heart starts beating faster as they set upon another familiar face.

“Sorry,” he mutters over his shoulder absently as he steps— _runs_  towards—

“Percival.”

There he stands dashing as ever in a well-fitted suit complete with a black tie and pins, long overcoat and a soft-looking blue scarf. His dark hair swept back by some kind of product complements his handsome face, but upon closer look, the marks of time on his features are evident in the wrinkles around and between his eyes and tired set to his mouth.

But as Newt nears, everything blooms and brightens in a smile, the one he recalls being reserved just for him, and Morgana have mercy—

“Hello, Newt,” Percival greets, voice deeper, huskier than Newt remembers but still so gentle.

Newt stops in front of him, dazed as memory upon memory of Percival rush back to him like a film, making his chest tight with fondness and nostalgia and something inexplicable. He watches as the man tips his head back to fully meet his eyes, frowning. Merlin, he’s _taller_  than Percival.

“When did you get so big?” Percival huffs, perplexed and seemingly perturbed by this fact.

And Newt, helplessly elated to see his friend who welcomes him, drops his suitcase to sweep Percival up in a tight embrace. Percival grunts but returns the hug and it’s different because he isn’t the small child being enveloped anymore; yet, he likes it all the same, that he is now of a stature to wrap his arms completely around the man.

It feels nice, very nice.

He never wants to let go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm totally scrapping the summary (any suggestions?) it's so misleading at this point I'm just SIGH anyway if this was going to be a friggin' slowburn I wouldn't have put us through this misery of waiting to begin with lol
> 
> One day, I'm just going to write something simple, but it isn't today. But hey, we've finally reached the friend stage and I'm going to make them fall in love so sweetly from here on to my heart's content, mark my friggin' words.
> 
> Thank you to all you sweethearts who continue to support this indulgence of mine!

Newt can die happy. Not now—he still has things to do, like finish his book—but eventually.

When he was a child, all marriage meant to him was living together and so in that sense, one of his dreams came true.

Percival graciously offered his residence for Newt’s temporary stay here and it’s a surreal experience to be sitting in Percival’s living room in his not-so-humble abode, drinking tea that Percival bought especially for him, sleeping in his guest room, and having breakfast with him in the mornings before he goes to work. Newt introduces him to Josephine and Dougal, and a few other creatures currently in the rehabilitation process within his suitcase. He preens when Percival’s impressed and compliments his spellwork of the habitats despite its apparent illegal nature, smiles sheepishly when the man points out all the permits needed for his creatures.

His fourth day in New York, Newt follows him to the Woolworth building which houses MACUSA, to get his permits. He briefly meets some of the aurors present during a tour of the place and enjoys getting to place faces to the names he had only seen in the letters. The only thing is that they all look at him sceptically when he's introduced as Percival’s childhood friend for some reason. He also sees Goldstein—one in Percival’s department, the other in passing. They’re both lovely.

Something is off, though. For all that Percival seemed to care for his subordinates in the letters, there is minimal personal interaction between them, an occasional nod of acknowledgement if they happen to notice one another. There is none of the warmth and smiles that he knows his friend to be capable of, and no one approaches him for matters other than actual business. It's almost cold.

“Tell me, what are you really here for?” one of the aurors asks conspiratorily while Newt is waiting for his permits to process and Percival has gone to take care of other business. They watch him like a hawk does its prey, like one wrong move will make them pounce on him. It’s rather unsettling.

“The Director must have caught you for something insignificant if you’re being left alone like this,” another comments from nearby. “He could have left you to us, then.”

It takes Newt a moment, then it hits him. “Excuse me, I’m not a criminal,” he huffs.

“Look, if you don’t want to get on Mr. Graves' bad side, just do as he says and he’ll probably let you off easy,” says yet another auror. “He’s strict but fair.”

Newt honestly doesn’t know why they're saying these things, not believing him. He’d be offended if he wasn’t so nervous being amongst all these strangers. When Percival returns with permits in hand, the idle chatter in the room dies immediately and everyone’s back to keeping their heads down like they had been earlier.

“Let’s go,” Percival says to Newt, and as he walks out after him, he notices that no one really bids them farewell and his friend doesn’t bother, either.

His concern over the confusing situation must show on his face because Percival stops them a couple blocks down the street. He makes an aborted movement with his right hand before leaving it loose at his side, yet another point of interest.

“Are you alright, Newt?” Percival asks, worry evident in his voice and expression. “Did someone hurt you?”

A sense of nostalgia strikes Newt, reminded of when Percival promised to protect him from the bad people. It's nice that he's still looking out for him, he supposes. Newt wants to ask about what happened, that the aurors would believe Newt to be a criminal rather than a friend, but it might be none of his business. Perhaps Percival is simply one for keeping his professional and personal life separate; therefore, he should respect that.

Newt smiles, shaking his head. “I was just thinking about the impressive set-up of MACUSA. I could have gotten lost in there, I think.”

They resume walking.

“Of course it's impressive,” Percival responds with some measure of pride. “Tell Theseus that; he’s still not convinced.”

“Oh, speaking of, he says hello,” Newt remembers.

Percival snorts, surprisingly inelegant for the man. “We talked only last week.”

And there it is again, the reminder that his brother had been regularly in touch with Percival all this time—which is good. He doesn’t know why that bothers him.

“You must be hungry,” his friend remarks. “You’ve waited quite a while, haven’t you.”

Percival glances over at about Newt’s shoulder, pauses, raises his eyes to meet Newt’s. A strange look passes over his face and he presses his lips together, but before Newt can ask, the moment is gone. He resumes talking, suggesting a couple places for dinner and Newt soon forget about it.

They go on a short tour on the weekend, short because Percival needs to go back to work in the evening. He informs Newt of a creatures conservatory a few hours' train ride outside the city and offers to take him there on Sunday.

“It’s alright, Percival; I understand that you’re busy,” Newt says. “I can go by myself.”

“Are you sure?” his friend asks, clearly not convinced. “It’s not so busy that I need to—”

“Percival,” Newt interrupts, a little exasperated. “I’ve been travelling the world for a year by myself, remember? I’ll be fine.”

He's looked at like a worried parent does a child and this isn’t what Newt wanted. But Percival eventually relents and nods. He asks if Newt can get to Percival’s home okay from here and in a fit of frustration, Newt’s reply is clipped. Percival blinks in apparent shock before something like guilt furrows his brows and pulls down the corners of his mouth.

“Right, of course,” he says. “I will see you later.”

And with that, Percival turns around and walks away. Newt’s left with a bad feeling that the other's view on this reunion isn’t quite the same as his, but it could be that his friend just needs some more time to adjust. He’ll try to keep that in mind.

Newt keeps it in mind as he's leaving three days later and Percival imperceptibly leans back when he steps forward to hug him. The man seems to realise what he just did a second later as Newt awkwardly drops his arms, but he merely gives a tight-lipped smile and wishes Newt a safe journey.

The strange thing is that they exchange letters again shortly into his trip and it’s like they’ve never stopped, a comfortable and easy banter back and forth. Percival seems much more at ease in the inked words on paper than he had in person. When he asks Theseus during a brief visit home, his brother reckons it’s the shock of seeing Newt grown up and not very cute anymore, for which Newt jabs him in the side.

“But seriously, I’m sure it’s nothing to fret over,” he says not unkindly. “You two have only just met, right?”

Theseus is right, Newt is being impatient; he shouldn’t be expecting to pick up right where they left off.

For his next stop, he heads toward Asia, deliberately avoiding the Africas for now.  Although his tour guides are able to speak decent English, Newt tries to learn some of the language so he can get around flexibly without too much hassle.

There are two extremes that he discovers: animal worship and animal poaching. The animal worship he doesn’t mind so much until they start sacrificing other ones as part of rituals, and he doesn’t even want to think about the poor things targeted by poachers. He can’t do much about the former out of respect for the culture, but he attempts to stop the latter if he sees it happening.

Thankfully, magical creatures are better in survivability compared to the non-magical ones due to their abilities, and so Newt generally has an easier time observing them.

He hits his first real spot of trouble in India when he witnesses an ambush on an occamy’s nest. He happened to be in search of them when he hears the horrible screeching, and upon seeing the brutal act of violence, he quickly lashes out with spells and stuns the perpetrators. After binding them, Newt buries the poor mother and takes the vulnerable nest with him. It really isn’t the right thing to do but it’s the best, he decides. Chances are, leaving them here could subject them to a predator or another greedy human who would break their eggs before they’re born.

While they’re incubating, Newt gets an opportunity to observe other unharmed occamies in their natural habitat. Full-grown ones are rather fearsome, able to enlarge themselves as a defense mechanism in order to intimidate or crush their enemies, as well as a strong beak that can make for a powerful bite. One would think that they might destroy their surroundings this way, but they’re more clever than he gives them credit for. Because they know the environment they grew up in, their growth actually accommodates the forests, coiling between and around them instead of pushing them out of the way. It’s fascinating.

He makes notes on behaviours and diet which are simple in nature, mostly lounging in the sun and staying close to the nests, sleeping in groups of three or more if they’re nestmates. Several attempts to have his rescued nest of eggs adopted go unsuccessfully, and Newt resigns to collecting containers of bugs to feed the babies when they're born.

It's another week before they start breaking through the eggshells. As they lay their eyes upon him and squeak and chitter in hunger, Newt falls in love, the utter trust with which they regard him melting his heart and invoking a strong desire to protect. He feeds and pets them, weaves together the spellwork for a natural habitat so that when he eventually releases them back into the wild, it won't feel foreign.

If he sheds a few tears as he lets them go, well, no one's around to see it.

After that, Newt starts taking an active part in helping oppressed and tortured creatures while he gathers information on them. It's a steep learning curve, he realises, landing himself into trouble with the authorities quite a few times because he can't escape the scene fast enough or gets caught by the perpetrators themselves. He has become lax, if he’s being honest, having avoided any kind of confrontation since his war days out of anxiety. It's fortunate that so far, they've been too busy with their criminal activities to consider torturing or killing him.

Theseus and Percival both have something to say about that.

“For the love of Merlin, Newt, at least disguise yourself; you’re a wizard for goodness' sake!” Theseus yells through a fire call.

 _I don’t condone your willful disregard for the laws, Newton,_  Percival writes.

But they bail him out every time, anyway. He does feel guilty for troubling them, however, and so Newt trains himself, to be quicker, cleverer, stronger. To outwit the criminals—overpower them if necessary—leave them turned around while he slips in and back out with the poor creatures in suitcase. He also makes friends with the locals who are willing to share what they've seen regarding unsavoury characters, making it easier for him to track them down.

In between adventures, Newt visits home and his friend in turns. Things with Percival are still tentative, yet slowly but surely, with every meeting and another week spent together, the man seems more at ease with the changes in Newt. And for Newt’s part, he learns something new each time.

Percival is an amazing cook. Not only is he proficient in visual arts—which Newt has thoroughly benefited from, proved through his own hand-drawn sketches of the creatures he met—but culinary arts as well. Newt has been fortunate enough to enjoy delicious home-cooked meals every time he has visited so far, and one evening he wonders aloud the perfection that is his friend.

“So what _can’t_  you do?” Newt asks, mostly rhetorical.

“I can’t cut my own hair,” Percival returns jokingly.

He also can’t function in the morning without a strong cup of coffee. Percival will be dead on his feet and walking into walls—usually prevented by a sloppily cast shield as soon as he gets out of bed—until caffeine runs through his veins.

They both share a hatred for folding laundry. Newt is used to wearing the same outfit for days on end, far too occupied with whatever creature is needing rescue or healing, or chasing one down for observations, and Percival just can’t be bothered, far too used to flicking a hand—the show-off—to get inanimate objects to do his bidding.

Another time, Newt discovers that Percival is rather sentimental after finding out he kept all of the letters Newt ever wrote him, and it makes his chest swell and eyes sting.

He still won’t give hugs, though, which is one of Newt’s silent complaints.

 

 

By the fourth time he's at MACUSA to update his permits, Percival’s department either believes that he’s actually a friend or a serial offender. The ones who think him a friend are infinitely curious as to how that came to be. Newt stutters through a brief, succinct explanation, leaving out details of his one-sided infatuation.

“So, even our Director had a soft side when he was young,” Auror Mathews muses. “Hard to believe.”

“He isn’t the most friendliest of people, you know,” Junior Auror Goldstein sighs at Newt’s confused look. “Charismatic, authoritative, but cold. No one can approach him and offer to go get a drink or something.”

“I’m still inclined to think you aren’t _really_  his friend, but maybe you’re just too nice for him to brush off,” is Auror O'Brien's input.

At the sound of even, sure footsteps, everyone scrambles back to their desks and Newt is sure he looks frazzled because Percival eyes him and then his aurors sceptically. Newt tries to appear nonchalant as he shrugs. An assessing stare, then Percival gestures towards the door, and Newt nearly trips over his own feet in a haste to follow.

Today is the first time he’s going to see Percival’s office.

The first impression of the room is that it’s just like a first impression of the man: dark and elegant, sharp and imposing. But then Newt also sees the more personal details as he’s shown around: a few well-loved books on the bookshelf, a photo of Percival’s family and one of Newt’s on the desk, the pen Newt had bought him with saved up allowance for Percival’s birthday, an old, knit blanket that he recognises hastily rolled up and shoved behind the guest sofa.

“Percival,” Newt tuts, setting his suitcase down before pulling out the bundle. “That’s no way to treat your mum’s hard work.”

Newt folds it up neatly as he grins at the disgruntled, embarrassed man. Percival mutters something under his breath and shakes his head, slides smoothly into his comfortable-looking chair. He watches his friend open a drawer and pull out a pair of black-frame glasses, casually put them on before reading over the details of the permits he acquired.

For some reason, the sight makes Newt’s mouth go dry and tugs at his heart simultaneously. Percival looks unusually soft while still being his handsome self, sighing occasionally and rubbing at his lip, flipping papers and tapping a finger against his chin. Newt must have stared too hard because the man blinks up at him still standing by the sofa, but he can’t look away. Realising the cause, Percival clears his throat, flushing slightly.

Newt swallows.

“This—it’s only for reading,” Percival explains, a self-conscious touch to his glasses. “It’s common for someone of my age.”

“Oh, that’s fine, I mean—” and it’s Newt’s turn to feel flustered, strangely. “It’s—it looks good. On you. Right, I just—” He shuts his mouth and hunches over, cheeks heated.

Newt expects to be teased, a snort of amusement at least, but when he raises his eyes, Percival’s expression is unreadable. There’s a tenseness to his overall frame and a pinch at the corners of his mouth. Percival then sighs and gives a tired smile, less genuine than what Newt is accustomed to.

“Thank you,” he says, removing his glasses. “These all seem to be in order; please don’t lose them.”

The whole moment leaves Newt feeling apprehensive as he steps forward to collect the permits. He knows he’s missing something, and thinks the progress they’ve been making might not really have been progress after all, that perhaps Percival has been good at hiding his true feelings.

His throat feels tight.

“It’s quite late, isn’t it,” Percival says as he stands quickly, summoning his coat. “Why don’t we get some dinner?”

Maybe Newt’s overthinking things, he doesn’t know. If Percival was a creature, he’d have an easier time understanding the man’s behaviours and words, never mind the expressions. The thought lightens his mood a little as he tries to imagine what kind of creature his friend would be.

“Newt?”

“Oh, um, yes,” Newt hastily answers, shoving the permits inside his coat pocket and picking up his case again. “Where to?”

Dinner is a simple affair and that weird mood from before seems to have left Percival. He listens to Newt’s stories with growing concern and exasperation, and he repeats the words from his letters like they’ll actually affect Newt.

“Do you remember all your defensive techniques from school?” he asks. “If not, I can teach you some.”

It can’t hurt, Newt thinks, so he gladly accepts.

It takes place during the weekend at the dueling arena of MACUSA after he spends a couple days looking into sources on suspicious black market activities. Newt's excited because he hasn't seen Percival in action for years, and he isn't disappointed. In fact, Percival has only become even more powerful than before, moving with all the grace and beauty of a seasoned predator. A wampus, Newt’s mind screams at him even while he barely holds his own against the man—the very creature representing Percival's school house. If Newt ever meets one, he believes it’d be very similar to the prowess his friend displays in this moment.

But Newt has his ways, too. He’s better at evading than blocking, preferring agility over strength. At some point during their training, he even manages to catch Percival off-guard with a fast counter-spell, and the man's shock at being knocked over gives way to pride and delight.

Newt likes that look very much.

 

 

Not every self-assigned mission ends in a happy ending. The reality is that sometimes he can’t save them, either coming across only the remains of what the creatures were hunted for or they’re too sick and injured to survive. The reality is that there’s only so much the law does to deter such abhorrent behaviours. The reality is that not enough people care, and no one cares enough.

The realisation hits hard one day, discouraging him so thoroughly that he comes home defeated. The creatures staying with Professor Kettleburn and Theresa all seem happy and safe and he's glad that they know nothing of the dangers out there. He doesn’t get to mope around for long, though, before he's grilled by both his mentors as to his attitude and prolonged stay.

“I’m sorry to hear that you’ve been disillusioned by the imbalanced relationship between humans and creatures, but you knew this was going to be difficult,” Theresa says matter-of-factly.

When Newt doesn’t reply, she sighs.

“Newt, you've made a difference. The cruelty of others isn’t something you can account for every single time, and that’s their problem, not yours,” she says while grooming Josephine. “Think of the creatures that are alive thanks to you; their lives are not so insignificant that you can assume what you’re doing isn’t worth it.”

Whatever, Newt thinks as the tears fall. But he understands, somewhat, from watching his mentors. Their endless passion and compassion, how—to them—no creature is more important than the other.

“We don’t need another person to stop caring,” Professor Kettleburn tells him another time. “Too many have only shown interest when it’s convenient for them, and turned their backs when it required more than the shallow attention they were willing to give.”

The implication is clear: Is this his limit? Is this where it ends for him?

While Newt stays with his brother who is ever supportive, Theseus tells him how he hated being called a war hero when he had killed so many and how he felt that he didn’t deserve to be serving justice afterwards. Newt is helpless when his brother cries as he relays this, having kept it within him for longer than anyone knew. Feeling unbelievably ill-equipped and inadequate, Newt holds Theseus close and cries in sympathy for his brother’s pain. But then Theseus thanks him and smiles brightly at the end when both their faces are a mess and they’re hiccupping, so maybe he didn’t do too badly.

What motivates him into action in pursuit of the answers is that no one regards him with disappointment for failing. Not his mentors, nor his family. Not even Percival who writes to him like Newt’s still important despite their less-than-comfortable personal interactions.

And Newt concludes that the only way to know for certain whether his love for creatures surpasses the obstacles he faces is to keep going. If this truly isn’t his path, then he’ll come to tire of it eventually, and there’s no reason to be inactive in the meantime.

 

 

Percival insists on training him, and it takes Newt a while to get that it’s his way of showing concern for Newt’s well-being. And it does help. Every practice session with Percival results in efficiency of his movements and improvisational skills, which reduces the problems he has during his trips.

Of course, the better he gets, Percival pushes harder with even more speed afterwards, shouting for Newt to dodge and block and fire, making him wonder if there is no end to this man’s abilities.

One particular session ends with him complaining about the unfairness, lying exhausted on his back on the floor.

Percival just smirks, barely out of breath, says, “A fight against a criminal will never be fair, Newt.”

A thought comes to mind. “Do you always personally train with your aurors like this?”

“When I can, yes,” Percival answers, obviously confused by the question.

“Then what’s the problem?” Newt mumbles to himself, thinking of the distance still present between Percival and his aurors.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Newt dismisses, shaking his head.

“Alright, time to get off the floor,” Percival says, offering a hand.

For a minute, Newt only stares at the hand as if it might disappear should he blink. A slight wriggling of fingers snaps him out of his absentmindedness and he grabs onto it like a lifeline. He relishes in the touch as he’s pulled up, not letting go easily because it’s the first physical contact they've had since the one hug they shared. Newt looks down at the joined hands, seeing the contrast of Percival’s thick and tan against Newt’s long and pale. Newt’s is a bit larger and rougher-skinned, and he appreciates the soft but scarred of his friend’s.

“Newt,” he hears in a cautious tone as the hand tries to pull away. But Newt just holds on.

“What’s the matter, Percival?” he asks, meeting a strangely nervous gaze. “I feel like you’ve been avoiding something.”

“It’s nothing,” Percival mutters, almost shying away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Right, I must’ve been imagining things for over a year now,” Newt retorts.

“Newt,” and now there’s a warning in his tone accompanied by a narrow stare.

But Newt isn’t a child who can be scared off by a little intimidation anymore.

“I’m not daft, Percival,” the words burst out of him, shocking both of them, but now he can’t stop. “What is it, exactly, that makes your attitude towards me switch from one second to the next? One moment, everything’s fine, but then you’ll sometimes look like you’ve tasted something unpleasant and draw away—”

“That’s not—”

“—and you can barely stand to touch me like I’m diseased!” Newt explodes. “I mean, I know I’m not the most sanitary person when I’m occupied but I’ve been diligent when I’m here. There really is no excuse except that you must be tolerating me for old acquaintance’s sake but—that isn’t—that’s not how you treat your friends.”

His grip has been steadily tightening and he stops before he crushes Percival’s hand. Now that he has run out of wind, silence echoing in the wake of his—Mercy Lewis— _tantrum_ , because there’s no other way to describe such a childish outburst mere minutes after he told himself he was no child, mortification manifests hotly on his face. And that last bit, rich words coming from him who barely has friends of his own.

Please, he wishes, someone strike him down this second.

Percival is a mix of stunned and guilty, face scrunched into something troubled and Newt looks away in shame. This isn’t what he wanted. He flinches at the heavy sigh and a squeeze to his fingers reminds him that he’s still holding on like a fool. But when he lets go, his hand doesn’t drop because Percival grips it instead.

Newt hesitantly raises his head, sees tired resignation in the man’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Newt,” Percival says quietly. “You are right; I’ve been a despicable coward.”

“No—” Newt gasps, shocked by the words. “Percival, I didn’t mean—” and then he trails off as Percival’s expression hardens and he shakes his head.

“I need to explain myself,” he says, almost angry, but Newt gets the feeling it’s not at him. “You deserve at least that.”

The hand in his is warm and soft, and he thinks he’d like to have this a bit longer. He doesn’t know what the man will say, if they’ll part ways for good after this or things will change for the better. But once again, Newt reminds himself that worrying about something that hasn’t yet come to pass is meaningless suffering he causes himself. He only needs to endure the pain once, and that’s enough.

“Okay,” Newt says. “Okay.”

 

 

Fingers tapping nervously against the cup in his hand, Newt glances away then back. Percival remains quiet, sipping his coffee on the opposite couch and seeming to mull over what he will say.

They returned to Percival’s home half an hour ago, both choosing not to drink alcohol for the upcoming conversation and instead each brewing his own beverage of choice. They sat in the living room after changing into comfortable clothing—well, Percival did, because Newt thought he might need to be ready to leave after their talk.

It has been six minutes since then, not that he’s counting.

“It’s stupid,” Percival mutters at last, setting his cup down on the coffee table.

Newt only raises a brow and takes a drink.

“I didn’t want a repeat of last time,” Percival continues, sitting back. “I've never been any good at making friends. 'Too serious’, they called me, 'stiff and conceited'.

Then Percival says, “You and Theseus were my first,” and it's heavy, wistful, tugging at Newt's heart.

“Oh,” is all he can say in response.

“You were quite adorable back then,” Percival shrugs, a soft, absent smile lifting his lips, telling Newt he's remembering. “Innocent and earnest, so, so curious and painfully shy. But also surprisingly bold.”

Newt feels his face grow warm.

“I suppose one could consider it pathetic for a grown man to only find company in those significantly younger than him because he won't befriend his own peers, but I was fine with that. I was fine with not having to wonder about ulterior motives, insincere words and gestures.”

Newt knows something about that—classmates who only sought him if they needed help with his specialized subject, or wanted an opportunity to speak with Leta. He had always assumed that he was the fortunate one to have a friend like Percival, but he’s starting to think that perhaps Percival was rather lonely himself.

“But I don’t know where I went wrong,” is what recaptures his attention. Percival has that unreadable expression again, hand coming up to rub at his chin, lost in thought. “I didn’t mean for the nature of our relationship to change. I must have been acting beyond what is appropriate for friends and somehow that—you mistook it—and you desired something I never intentionally offered.”

Percival sighs, bows his head. “That wasn’t something I could give you and in that I hurt you; I’m sorry.”

Something hot and cold washes over Newt. He can only remain silent as he remembers the letter, the very first reply he received after the war, how Percival apologized for the way they parted. Newt didn’t understand at the time why that was, but he’s starting to.

“It was even harder to befriend anyone after that,” he mutters tiredly, leaning back again. “Adults are too cunning, either wanting power by virtue of knowing a Graves or sex for the sake of boasting,” he ends, voice flat and void of emotion.

It’s a testament of his perception of Newt that he’s able to speak bluntly and freely to him, but it hurts to learn that Percival had no one who could give him what he needed. Even after the man left, Newt was able to find comfort from those around him as well as the creatures, but Percival seems to have had difficulty with that. He doesn’t even want to imagine what it must have been like after the war, if this is what it drove Percival to.

“I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Newt; please understand that,” Percival says, though from his expression, it’s like he expects otherwise. “But I can't give any false hopes about...” he finishes with a vague gesture.

He gets it, that Percival would rather push Newt away himself deliberately rather than feeling helpless to stop it from happening. But this is also _Newt's_  second chance, an opportunity to reconcile, and he isn't letting it go so easily.

“Percival,” then he pauses, searching for the words. “What another person feels towards you isn’t something you can control—”

“I beg to differ,” Percival interrupts, “I’ve maintained a strictly professional relationship with all personnel at MACUSA and it has served me well so far.”

Oh, if only he knew what his aurors were saying, infinitely curious about their admirable, competent boss. But this obviously isn’t the time to mention it and Newt takes a minute to push back his embarrassment for what he’s about to say.

“What I felt for you then—” he starts, ducking his head but not before seeing his friend stiffen, “—wasn’t necessarily because of any action or behaviour on your part. Well, indirectly, perhaps.”

A glance up shows a frowning, sceptical Percival, but he waits for Newt to keep going.

“It was because you were kind and intelligent, a truly caring person who was incredibly patient with an annoying kid like myself—”

The man softens a touch even as a tinge of red steals over his face. “Newt...”

“—and those inherent qualities you possess simply manifested in the way you treat others, is all. You’re a good person, and I was—and they were, too, I suppose—attracted to that.”

Percival’s eyes have grown wide by this point, and he blinks, blinks again, then looks away shyly, covering his mouth as if he has never heard this before. Newt is sure that he himself is crimson from head to toe, having verbally laid bare the feelings he had once carried within him.

“B-but that was a long time ago. I don’t, you know, anymore... and I’m—I just want to be your friend again, which is actually my point,” he hastily adds. “If—if you’re fine with it, that is.”

He’s back to tapping on his mug while waiting for Percival’s verdict. Percival turns back again to eye him, contemplative, rubs at his lips again—a thinking habit, Newt notes—then takes a drink of coffee. It must be lukewarm because he makes a face, and it causes Newt to smile. Percival catches that and Newt tries to firm mouth into something sombre, but the man unexpectedly chuckles—something which Newt hadn’t realised was missing all this time—and it’s a wonderful sound.

“Thank you, Newt,” he says at last, a smile lingering in his eyes. “I’d like that very much.”

Newt's heart quivers in delight and he can’t help the grin stretching his mouth wide.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. This is longer than usual because if I wanted to cut it at the usual length it wouldn't have been a nice ending and you guys deserve a nice ending after waiting so long for this chapter. And also, I still have a lot that needs to be covered before the end of the story so I tried to squeeze in as much as I plausibly could in terms of plot (what plot?)
> 
> Updates are slower, yes, due to work and other commitments that have started this fall, but I am determined to finish. One more chapter to go! Hopefully! Thank you for all your patience and support!

“You’re a filthy liar.”

“Am _not_. I've not lied to you once and you still doubt me?” Newt huffs. “You’re incorrigible.”

“That's because you say the most outrageous things, little Newt,” Auror O’Brien retorts. “It's always something improbable.”

Newt crosses his arms. “It's perfectly normal in my line of work.”

“Ha! Nothing about dragons is 'normal'—”

“Leave the damn kid alone, O'Brien,” Auror Mathews interrupts. “You’re a menace.”

As Auror O'Brien splutters indignantly and turns on Auror Mathews, Newt sighs. He’s here at MACUSA yet again for permit updates—everyone knows by now and stopped accusing him of felony, thank goodness—and was questioned on what he 'captured' on his latest trip. Somehow, Percival’s subordinates have become comfortable with him to the point that they will talk to him every time he’s around. As Percival had said in his letters, they’re a rowdy but harmless bunch. They seem to enjoy hearing tales of his work—mostly disbelieving but intrigued. Though it would be easier to simply show them if only to quiet their doubts once and for all, he hesitates to open his suitcase to just anyone. Most lack the sensibility when it comes to dealing with creatures, and he’s reluctant to allow ignorant people near creatures who need space and specialized treatment.

Really, MACUSA is in dire need of education about magical beasts. He found out that American laws pertaining to them are not as progressive as back home, and hadn’t been at all pleased.

He barely refrains from hunching reflexively in remembrance of his first big argument with Percival. Newt had happened to overhear a discussion about a case, the conclusion of it making him frown. When questioning his friend about it later on, Percival had revealed their laws don’t allow much leeway for creatures that cause trouble, and that the nearby conservatories were overfull already, unable to take anymore of them. No one desired to manage their transport to other out-of-town facilities or release them back to their homes and since no laws protected them, they were generally put down, the building lacking the proper facilities to accommodate them. Newt had been positively appalled and had not-so-politely vocalized his opinion on that to which Percival had only said, “It’s not that simple.” And Newt had snapped in that moment, sneering how things must be _so complicated_  in a crude parody of what his friend said to him years ago.

Percival hadn’t been too happy about it, either.

In frustrated tones of someone who has had the same argument repeatedly with himself, Percival had explained that he alone could only do so much through commanding his aurors to release a creature every so often or, more frequently, do so himself. That it was difficult to suggest considering such laws, never mind pass a bill when the majority of the Congress did not see it as a problem due to ignorance and severe lack of interest. MACUSA had no specialist to help them invest into the lives of beings other than the human kind, and Percival damn well knew, hurt because he knew it would break Newt’s heart to see the creatures mistreated so but _he tried for Merlin’s sake_.

Though Newt had felt perfectly justified in his own anger, guilt had surged when Percival apologized first afterwards, tired and wary.

Newt has yet to apologize. After some time and thought, he’s admittedly at fault, too, not having a clue about how MACUSA runs and blaming Percival for what is beyond his authority. The man acts like the incident is already behind him which makes it difficult for Newt to initiate this particular conversation, but he's determined to let Percival know.

Speak of the devil; Percival walks into the room with sheets of papers, glaring in jest at Newt while gesturing wordlessly to the permits. Newt smiles sheepishly as he receives and folds them up carefully before pocketing them.

“Sir,” Senior Auror Fontaine speaks up when he notices the man’s presence. “Why don’t we just draft a single special permit for him instead? Save you the hassle of doing extra paperwork each time.”

The whole room holds their breath in anticipation as Percival regards the man thoughtfully, though it might seem a little intense to those who don’t know him.

“I agree, sir,” Junior Auror Goldstein (“Tina will do,”) voices shyly. “Newt seems to have a penchant for losing them quite regularly,” and Newt grins at her sheepishly, caught by the truth. “He’d be less likely to misplace it if there are less of them.”

A few more seconds tick by, then finally, Percival nods at the two aurors. “Yes, that's an excellent suggestion; thank you,” then graces them with a smile, small but genuine.

He doesn’t seem to notice the hush that falls over everyone as he takes a report handed to him and reads that over while heading toward his office. The room is usually quiet when he’s around, but there's a telltale shocked quality to the silence this time. Highly understandable.

“What did you do?” someone asks him once the office door closes.

“Pardon?” he turns to the speaker, Auror Perkins.

“He’s in an exceptionally good mood, looks like,” the auror continues, brushing back her dark hair. “Any drastic changes usually pertains to you, and for the Director, that right there was pretty drastic.”

“He’s softer lately, didn’t you notice?” Auror Mathews joins. “Not in a bad way, just more... approachable.”

Of course Newt has noticed. He's the first to experience those ‘drastic’ changes, after all. Half a year after their talk, Percival no longer goes out of his way to maintain a barrier between them, comfortable to a certain extent with the easygoing nature of their interactions. Starting last month, he has even been receptive to casual touches—a hand to the shoulder or elbow, bumping sides and the like. Newt almost feels like a guarded creature is being coaxed out of its shell, as strange a comparison that might be. Much of Percival’s apprehension has dissipated, and it’s starting to bleed into his other relationships as well.

The aurors, like now, are shocked by the changes to say the least, but Newt hadn’t thought so much that he was an instigator in all this. Well, that isn’t completely true; he had suspected but it’s different—even uncomfortable—hearing another’s assessment. He'd rather not think he has so much influence, enough to cause the adverse effect of before as well.

“That’s... good, I suppose,” he says lamely, for lack of a better response.

He's given suspicious looks but they return the smile he shoots them and ruffle his hair on their way to their desks. Simultaneously annoyed—he’s twenty-six and a half yet still being treated like a young one, even by Tina who is the same age!—and chuffed because he thinks these people genuinely like him (which is a foreign but pleasurable concept), he belatedly follows the way to Percival’s office.

Percival is already at his desk, glasses on and scribbling away on a parchment, probably the outline for the permit they were just discussing, never one for delaying work. He’s relaxed and at home in this room and Newt quietly puts his case down as to not disturb him, and watches. The scratch of quill and the occasional noise of thought or huff of breath lulls him into a near-trance as he contemplates how unconventional they must be. Newt himself isn’t conventional by any means, but even he knows with his limited knowledge and experience that it’s unusual to be this attached to one person for his whole life. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something about Percival that he can’t bear to lose, that makes him so persistent.

If Percival had accepted his proposal all those years ago, maybe he wouldn’t be so—and his mind screeches to a halt. _Where on earth did that come from?_  he thinks, flustered. That was a child’s obsession, nothing more, he quickly dismisses.

But then his friend looks up because Newt shifted unconsciously and making some kind of noise, and Percival smiles something gorgeous, all open and soft, solely directed at him. Newt’s heart thumps so loud at the sight Percival must have heard it, and he clears his throat, turning away so his friend won’t see the red spreading over his face.

“Did you need something, Newt?” he hears Percival ask. “I can only _legally_  assist so much.”

His tone is stern with underlying amusement, telling Newt that he’s teasing. But the mention of legality reminds him that be actually does have business with the man.

“Um, actually...” He glances up and Percival has nothing but patience in his expression, peering over the top of his glasses and still smiling. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

Percival’s brows furrow and his smile drops. “What for?”

“I, uh, for last week.”

The man’s face scrunches further in confusion before smoothing out in understanding. “Newt,” he sighs, “has that been on your mind this whole time? I told you it’s—”

“—not alright. I know I can get a little—okay, _more_  than a little passionate about creatures,” Newt corrects at the pointedly arched brow. “But that’s a poor excuse to go off on you like that when it’s not your fault.”

Percival looks like he's trying to hold back something, mouth pressed closed, but he isn't upset. Newt bites at his lip nervously. What else should he say? He tries to rack his mind for words that will further express his genuine regret.

“Alright, I accept your apology,” Percival concedes after a moment, much to Newt’s surprise, then, “That was very thoughtful of you.”

The expression that follows is one of such fondness and Newt doesn’t know how to take that. On one hand, he’s immensely relieved and glad that Percival properly acknowledges his maturity; on the other, his chest tightens with an inexplicable emotion that makes him want to... _do something_. Instead, he takes a calming breath and grins as Percival beckons him over to help with the permit so it can cover what's necessary. Newt finds himself leaning over the back of Percival's chair to read what's being written, impressed and intimidated by the amount of detail involved.

A scent wafts up his nose, Percival's usual cologne, and he breathes deeply—clean and masculine. He doesn’t realise he drifts closer until Percival turns his head because he isn’t replying to a question, and Percival’s eyes from this distance appear to be a mix of warm shades rather than a single, uniform colour. There’s a hitch in breath and Percival blinks in surprise, the dark, thick lashes sweeping down and up. How pretty.

The hoarse “Newt” is what jolts him backwards and he’s stammering out apologies and excuses, “Sorry, sorry, habit. Observing things, you know?”

But Percival isn’t looking his way anymore, attention back on the papers, quietly says, “Right. Observation.”

Inwardly berating himself for such rude behaviour, Newt fidgets, standing a good metre away. Then he notices his friend’s red-tipped ears and maybe he should just see himself out the door and out of the city because their friendship as adults requires subtlety and sensitivity but here he has gone and stumbled over himself (figuratively speaking) and embarrassed Percival, making him uncomfortable.

“Newt, stop mumbling and help me finish this permit,” Percival calls.

Hesitantly, rather than resume his original spot, Newt goes back around to sit across the desk from Percival. His friend doesn’t comment on it and he’ll take that as a good sign. Several aurors come in with various inquiries and it’s always interesting to watch Percival work and interact with them; strict but fair is how they once described him. The way in which he conducts himself and the department speaks volumes about his integrity and principles, proving time and again how good he is.

That evening, he discusses with Newt about the possibility of educational seminars for his department to initiate changes in attitude towards creatures so they can ultimately change laws to better protect them.

Newt nearly tackles his friend to the ground, barely managing to refrain with a bone-crushing hug instead, and when Percival wraps his arms around him it feels like something missing has slotted back into place. He probably holds on for a bit longer than necessary but he can’t be blamed, really; it simply has been too long. And then Percival pats his head even though he has to reach up a little and it’s nostalgic in a way that makes his nose sting.

They part a little awkwardly, gaze no quite meeting the other. Newt somehow escapes the situation after babbling some excuse about the evening rounds in his suitcase; it’s a legitimate excuse for which he's profoundly glad. His face is burning as he tosses pellets at the herd of mooncalves he rescued on his last journey, as he grooms the shy demiguise's fur, and about the time he’s cleaning up, he calms down. Then a kind of dread disturbs him, leaving a sinking feeling in his gut.

It can’t be.

 

 

The disappointed look from Percival when Newt cuts his visit short haunts him on the ship sailing out of America. He isn’t running away, he _isn’t_. There was a letter from Mr. Worme asking after his progress and prompting an estimate of when the first draft might be ready, and Newt has yet to see some parts of the world, plans to revisit others.

He heads to the Africas.

His first stop is Sudan where he pays his respects to the poor girl he couldn’t save, and her death is keenly felt despite having a part of her in his suitcase. He hopes it never happens again.

A letter from Percival arrives some days later in response to Newt’s which informs him of where he is, and it’s simple, generic in content. Newt gets the feeling that his friend wants to inquire after his abrupt departure even though Newt already told him—because Percival has always been incredibly intelligent and intuitive and he might have noticed that wasn’t the only reason—but he’s being polite.

There’s an injured nundu that he comes across; poisoned, ironically, and he teases her while feeding her his concocted antidote. Without the poisonous breath and aggressive reactions to threats, he notices that the nundu has a calm, almost lazy disposition compared to the others he has seen. She purrs and bats her tail, loves scratches behind the ears and swats playfully at the diricawls from another previous rescue. He decides to name her Gladys for her feminine but regal qualities.

From then on, he stays on the move. Percival’s training is more useful than ever, and Newt is able to dismantle illegal creature operations like water does a sandcastle because they never see him coming. Newt doesn’t always cooperate with the local authorities of where he’s visiting, but he learns the intricacies of their jurisdiction, compares and contrasts to other nations. It’s interesting to see the difference in value that they put on magical creatures, varying from city to city, country to country.

He keeps learning, his unexpected thirst for knowledge and endless curiosity driving him beyond simple compassion for the creatures.

Percival’s letters are few and far in between since Newt doesn’t exactly inform him of all his locations and is constantly mobile except for the times when a specific creature needs further observation. Sometimes he feels guilty about it, other times he’s too occupied with his work.

One day while he’s in Germany after saving a branch of bowtruckles, the man writes him that his permit is ready—has been ready for some time—and that he can drop by any time to pick it up, a subtle invitation; there are no questions other than how he’s doing, nothing about when he’ll be back or if anything is wrong. He writes back his gratitude and that he’ll be by as soon as he can.

Theseus is a tad less subtle than that. There are fire calls whenever possible, usually whenever mum’s around so she can fuss over him and _no worries, mum, no one’s abusing any hippogriffs—yes, I’m_  positive.

His brother, with all the tact of an important figure of the Ministry who navigates political landmines on a daily basis, asks, “What’s going on with you and Percy?”

“Excuse me?” Newt frowns.

“The poor fellow is rather listless as of late,” Theseus continues. “He hides it well, but it’s obvious when one knows what to look for.”

Newt’s chest constricts, breath quickening the slightest bit. “And what does that have to do with me?” he forces out calmly, then immediately realises his mistake when Theseus grins like he won.

“Not ‘what’s wrong’? So it does have something to do with you,” he crows in delight.

“I don’t know,” Newt mutters, a little peeved and embarrassed to be caught out so easily. “Sod off, Theese.”

“Newt,” Theseus sighs, grin softening to something more sympathetic, “why don’t you come home and tell me what it’s about?”

A refusal is quick on his lips but Newt pauses, wonders. Perhaps it’s something he does need to talk about.

“I’ll let you know when I leave,” he relents.

That night, Newt goes into his suitcase in the safety of a hotel room and realises with a pang that he misses Percival fiercely, throat tightening when his calendar shows that he has been away for nearly seven months. His longest trip ever between visits was three months, until now. Does Percival miss him sorely, too? Surely not; surely Theseus is only joking. But his mind betrays him and recalls Percival’s face as he left, recalls many other moments before that—how the man smiles so sweetly when he looks upon Newt each time he visits, nags at him to be careful each time he leaves, how recently, he almost leans into Newt when he’s near. And he can’t help but wonder, in light of the aurors’ observations, if they notice changes in Percival’s demeanour, like his brother seems to have, as a result of Newt’s absence.

On his back near the tree he grew for the bowtruckles, Newt blinks up at the artificial stars until they go blurry, letting his mind calm from the storm of swirling thoughts. It’s not good to suffer twice, he reminds himself, and closes his eyes.

And wakes up to a baby graphorn licking his hair and the sound of panicked bowtruckles. Newt gets up and deftly herds the likely hungry creature back to his mother, glad to see it up and about after a week of intense care and silently marvels at his recovery rate. He then returns to calm the whole branch and starts the morning round with feeding them first, ends with a long shower to thoroughly scrub the graphorn’s saliva out of his hair.

Then he’s off to England.

Spring is in full bloom back home, and it's a wonderful sight to behold. If it was allowed, Newt would have liked to let the beasts roam free in the parks and forests but alas...

During his stay with mum and dad, Theseus also comes home because, according to him, he missed mum’s cooking, but Newt thinks Theseus needed a break from being alone. It’s like old times, when his brother was still in school and Newt wasn’t struggling to make friends at Hogwarts. They both sleep on their childhood beds in the shared room and it’s nice, getting to catch up with one another and being reassured by each other’s presence. So nice, in fact, that Newt’s almost surprised when Theseus asks about the root of Newt’s _problem_ —for lack of a better word—a couple nights later.

“I don’t know, Theese,” Newt sighs, rolling onto his side to face him. “I just wanted to be friends again. But lately... Maybe I’m acting a little overexcited after not having seen him for so long and I'm being greedy, yet I want more... something,” he gestures vaguely. “I wish we would be closer, somehow. It's not _that_ , I don't think, and I wouldn't want it anyway; once is enough for me.”

His explanation is convoluted, but so are his thoughts and that’s the best he can come up with. He rubs a hand tiredly over his face.

Theseus regards him thoughtfully, then appears conflicted. “When are you going back to America?”

Newt shrugs. “Soon? It’s about time, I suppose.”

“I’ll come with you,” Theseus suddenly decides. “Give me a few days so I can request time off, and then we’ll head over together.”

What on earth is he talking about? New currently doesn’t possess the brain capacity to process. “What are you—I don’t—why?”

“Haven’t seen the ol’ chap in a while myself,” is his only answer, grinning.

“How are you allowed this many vacations?” Newt asks dryly. “I don’t know how you’re getting any work done.”

“Just because Percy never takes a break, doesn’t mean it’s normal,” Theseus casually retorts.

“That’s not—” Newt starts, then decides not to bother.

“Good night, little brother,” Theseus laughs.

“Good night, old man.”

“Not as old as _your_  man—”

“ _Good night, Theseus_.”

 

 

Needless to say, Percival is surprised to see Theseus. And Newt, for that matter. Neither of them deigned to forewarn him of their coming.

Theseus had strode confidently into the department announcing who he is and his intentions and barged into Percival's office like he owned the place much to Newt's mortification. He had been left to follow with his head down to avoid meeting the bewildered gazes of the aurors even as he tried to ignore the very loud whispers about his brother the War Hero.

Newt waves shyly at the disapproving receptionist before he steps inside where Theseus is enveloping Percival in a hug. Though his eyes are wide in shock, Percival’s expression is a pleased one and he pats Theseus firmly on the back in return, murmuring some kind of greeting. Before he knows it, Newt finds himself putting down his suitcase, approaching them swiftly—“Newt!” Percival exclaims—and snatching Percival away into a hug of his own. The feeling of winding his arms around the man is too wonderful for words and he probably squeezes a bit too hard, but it's alright. He draws back though not quite letting go and looks into wide, concerned eyes and Merlin, he wants to—

And Theseus jumps on them both startling noises from them, huddling everyone together and laughing. “It has been a while since the three of us were together; let’s go out and celebrate!”

“Not that I’m not glad to see you, but what did you do about work?” Percival asks, eyeing his brother.

Newt tosses an ‘I-told-you-so’ at him over Percival’s shoulder, and Theseus rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“I'm not slacking off, if that's what you're asking; a bit of a break is all,” Theseus answers, shrugging.

Percival clucks his tongue as he gently breaks away, and Newt refrains from pulling him back. His friend regards him and Theseus who's draped over him and shakes his head.

“Go occupy yourselves for a bit while I finish up,” he sighs. “I'll meet you at the Prancing Unicorn a couple blocks from here at six. And Theseus, please go and pay your respects to the President. Now, shoo.”

It's not the reunion Newt had imagined after such a long time apart—disappointing, in fact. Except for the initial surprise, Percival is acting like nothing is different, even kicking them out because work takes precedence. A quick look over his shoulders as he’s leaving shows Percival back at his desk, poring over whatever document he was reading before the interruption. Something inside aches and he trods after Theseus out of the office, dragging his feet.

“I’m going to do as he says, be diplomatic and all. I’ll be back soon, alright?” and with that, Theseus is gone.

With nothing else to do, Newt thinks about whether they’ll need to acquire a room in case Percival doesn’t allow them to stay with him, but on his way out, hr is snatched by a group of aurors and dragged into a meeting room.

“What was that for?” he exclaims, one hand gripping his suitcase tight and the other twisted in his shirt where his pounding heart is. He calms a little when he recognizes familiar faces. But still...

“Where have you been, Newt?” Auror Mathews questions almost menacingly, and Newt unconsciously shrinks back.

“I was working,” he manages, and when they wait for further explanation, he adds, “I was a bit behind schedule on research for my book so it was an extended trip.”

Though some seem annoyed, they accept his answer. There’s a collective sigh and sharing of looks amongst one another.

“Well, I'm glad you aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere in a remote corner of Africa,” Auror O'Brien sighs, and Newt’s rather touched by the concern. “Thought you might have been eaten by a nundu or something.”

“Ah, no, actually their diet doesn’t include human meat,” Newt explains. “A common misconception, but it’s really the poison that dissolves the flesh off of bones. What they choose to eat is torn up by the teeth which leaves a markedly different evidence.”

Silence, and everyone stares at him like he grew a second head. Then Auror Mathews whispers, “What the fuck.”

“Anyway,” Auror Perkins coughs loudly, “try to keep up with your work next time and don’t do that again.”

“Excuse me?” Newt frowns.

“Going away for that long, she means,” adds Tina, nodding.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Newt asks, perplexed.

They look at each other again, some shaking heads.

“Let them talk about it,” Auror Mathews says to the group. “Not up to us.”

“But when does Director Graves talk about anything?” Auror Johnson points out.

“Good point, but still,” Auror O'Brien shrugs.

“What _is_  it?” Newt almost whines.

Right then, someone slams open the door: Senior Auror Fontaine, and he doesn’t look happy.

“Is this an actual meeting or do you not have enough work that you have such leisure to sit around and gossip?” he snaps, then his eyes land on Newt. “Welcome back, Newt.”

“O-oh, thank you,” Newt mumbles shyly.

“Back to work and not a peep out of you for the rest of the day or the Director will be hearing about this,” he addresses the aurors again, and they all flee past him, muttering apologies.

Newt moves to follow them, but stops when the Senior Auror speaks again.

“Please ignore whatever they said to you,” he says, seeming exasperated.

“Um, alright,” Newt replies uncertainly.

But it satisfies the man and he nods, letting Newt out.

Really, what was that about, he wonders. It can’t be that they’re so concerned for his well-being that he should touch base with them more often, is it? They mentioned Percival, too, which is even more confusing. He seemed perfectly fine to Newt.

Theseus returns shortly after that and they leave the building to walk around for the next while before heading to the pub. At Newt’s suggestion that they look for a room for their stay, his brother looks at him strangely.

“Why?” he asks. “Percy has more than enough room to accommodate us both.”

“It’s—” Newt hesitates, tries again, “We could be bothering him.”

“Since when are you so concerned about bothering him,” Theseus says carelessly, and Newt flushes hotly in response. His brother sighs. “Newt, I didn't mean anything by it. I only meant that we’re comfortable enough each other.”

“I know,” Newt says, even as he wonders why nothing concerning Percival is simple.

They arrive at the Prancing Unicorn a bit early, order drinks and food and wait for their friend to arrive. Percival enters exactly at six with a flourish and coat hanging over his arm, which he tosses and hangs it on the rack by the entrance. He walks towards them confidently and gracefully and Newt can’t take his eyes off of him.

It’s what allows him to notice that the man seems a tad subdued throughout the night, cracking a smile here and chuckling slightly there at Theseus's loud and colourful storytelling, smiling softer when Newt shares his own stories.

When it's Percival’s turn, he shrugs and says that life for him was as usual and nothing more, even though Theseus attempts to pry more words from him. He hands Newt the permit for his suitcase for which Newt thanks him profusely, and he smirks, tells him to consider it a belated birthday gift. Percival drinks and eats, drinks some more, listens to them talk and nods along. He has more to say when Theseus brings up his work and they go off on that tangent.

He also drinks.

“Haven’t you had enough, mate?” Theseus asks later on, eyeing the glasses piling in front of Percival.

Percival narrows his eyes over the rim of the glass in his hand as he gulps down another mouthful before putting it down. “What’s wrong, Theseus? Don’t tell me you’re done already.”

“Alright, then,” his brother mutters, raising a brow.

“Besides, it’s Friday,” Percival continues. “We can afford to—”

And the slight slur to the last few words is the only indication they get before Percival’s eyes slide closed and he tips back in his seat. Newt panics and reaches out at the same time as Theseus and they catch the man by each arm. Percival’s head rolls back, then forward when they gently pull him back. Newt immediately slides over to wrap an arm around him for support and his heart skips as Percival’s head lolls onto his shoulder. He hears soft snores from his friend and looks up bewildered at Theseus who appears equally baffled.

“I've never seen him get drunk before,” he marvels, and Newt nods dumbly in agreement. “I bet he just didn’t want to pay for the drinks.”

But he uses Percival’s wallet to pay for their table anyway, causing Newt to roll his eyes. Theseus casts a disillusionment charm to preserve Percival’s dignity and they both support their unconscious friend out of the pub, grabbing his coat on the way, and apparate as soon as they can to Percival's home.

The wards easily permit them inside, familiar with their magical signatures. Theseus takes over after they put him to bed, asking Newt to grab a cup of water and see if there's a hangover potion around somewhere. After setting down his case and removing his coat, he goes to do just that. There’s one potion in a cupboard, thankfully, and by the time he returns, Percival has been divested of his tie, vest, and shoes, hair fallen out of place and like dark silk against the white of his pillow.

“Off to bed for us, too,” Theseus yawns, stretching his arms over his head. “I'll take the couch tonight.”

“We can share the guestroom, Theese,” Newt suggests as he puts the water and potion by the bedside drawer. “Just expand the bed.”

“That works,” his brother nods. “Are you coming?”

“Not yet,” he says. “I've got to feed the creatures first.”

With a wave of acknowledgement, Theseus steps out. Newt sighs and turns back to his sleeping friend—and barely suppresses a yelp when he sees him awake.

“How long have you—never mind,” he huffs. “How are you feeling, Percival?”

But Percival doesn't answer, staring silently up at him; a bit unnerving, to be honest.

“Are you leaving again?” Percival asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Don't,” he says, brows furrowing as his face becomes distraught. “Whatever I did, I—please—”

He has no clue what brought this on and it's then that he notices the hand that's gripping onto his trousers. He reflexively pulls away and the hand falls weakly to grip at the sheets.

“Don't go, Newt,” Percival pleads, something he never would have associated with the man before.

In spite of his shock, Newt finds himself kneeling by the bed and covering Percival's hand with his own. He doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't know what _Percival_  is doing, but it seems to calm him a little.

“I'm not going anywhere, Percival,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t mean for you to leave,” the man slurs, blinking heavier, sleep overtaking him again.

Newt struggles to swallow with a suddenly tight throat. “Sleep,” he manages. “I’ll be here.”

As if reassured at last, Percival closes his eyes one last time and exhales, relaxing. Newt thinks over what he just said and vaguely recalls what the aurors mentioned earlier in the day, telling him not to be gone for long—as well, the rather unusual mention of Percival. The dots connect in his mind, that despite Percival’s act of nonchalance, he must have missed Newt and it caused unintentional distress; Newt hunches guiltily.

Though the room is dim, Newt can see the lines of fatigue that crease a weary face, and it hurts to think that Percival hasn’t been taking care of himself. Without his permission, his other hand caresses those lines, smooths out the scrunched brows and runs his thumb along a stubbled jaw. Unexpectedly, Percival leans into the touch and sighs, expression settling into something content as he continues snoring. Newt’s heart pounds so fiercely, he’s sure it will burst out of his chest.

Merlin help him, he loves this man.

It’s not so much a realisation as it is an acknowledgement, because he had been hoping against hope that it was anything but that. How could this have happened, he quietly mourns, that he’s back to being seven, ten, fourteen, sixteen—now twenty-seven, heart captured by the same person. But even as he thinks it, he vows to love in silence until it fades, for he won’t lose Percival again.

They will always be friends, and Percival will be none the wiser.

 

 

Breakfast is cooked by Theseus after he had to go grocery shopping early in the morning because _how do you live with no damn food in the house, Percy?_  He stocks the kitchen while nagging like their mum does sometimes and Percival sits at the table sipping his coffee while pretending to listen when Newt joins them after the morning rounds. Newt grins at his friend as he sits down across the table with his tea that Theseus passed him—and promptly freezes.

A slow flush spreads over Percival’s face as the man stares at him like he’s dazed, then subtly averts his eyes. It makes him appear soft, especially with his glasses on for reading today’s papers and hair curling down over his forehead.

“Good morning, Newt,” he says quietly after clearing his throat. “Thank you for last night—you and Theseus both. I behaved deplorably and for that I apologize.”

Of course he's embarrassed about yesterday. Newt almost blushes himself, ashamed that he assumed different mere hours after he decided to hide his feelings.

“It’s fine, Percy,” Theseus responds first, coming over with plates of eggs, bacon, and morning rolls. “’Twas rather cute, I must say, that you would pass out like that with no prior indication. But don't get drunk around just anyone, alright?”

“It won’t be happening again,” Percival grumbles into his coffee. “And you're one to talk about getting drunk—”

“ _Twice_ , that was all,” Theseus grits out. “And we were never to speak of it again, you traitor.”

Percival throws his brother an amused look, then thanks him for the food before biting into a roll. Newt has already been eating while listening to them banter, and it’s a comforting familiarity that makes him smile.

It’s like his resolve from last night has made him bold, as if resigning to his destined fate of unrequited love enables him to take what he can get. The whole weekend, Newt takes advantage of every benefit he has as a close friend: being in close proximity to the man, hugging him, touching him casually, having those gorgeous eyes on him as much as possible.

But what's even more surprising than his own devil-may-care attitude is Percival's response to it. He allows Newt all these things and moreover, he doesn't seem to dislike the attention. It's hard to tell because overall he remains reticent, but there are some positive indications.

The morning after their reunion isn't the only time he blushes; once it's because Newt leaned over his shoulder in a bookstore to see what book had caught Percival's attention and his breath accidentally tickled his ear, nearly smacking Newt's face as a hand shot up to cover it. Another time was when Newt combed back a stray piece of hair that had fallen out of its meticulous arrangement and his fingers brushed against the skin of Percival's forehead.

And then his friend would glance at Newt frequently, sometimes with a frown, other times with a tiny smile. Always, always pensive. At one point, he needed to be prompted back into the conversation.

He would lean into Newt’s hand at his back, let Newt guide him with linked arms, and return some of those gestures with shy ones of his own.

They're friends, Newt reminds himself a week later, when the aurors crowd him once again and _boss is feeling better, thank you_. Good friends, he reaffirms one night as Theseus arches a brow at them cuddled together on one sofa to read, just like old times.

Very good friends, his mind yells at him when they’re out for dinner, just the two of them, after Newt has returned from another research trip in time for his twenty-eighth birthday. Screams it as he laughs at Percival's story about an incident involving Auror Perkins and a new auror-in-training who has a terrible case of puppy-love for her, as he meets his friend’s deceptively tender gaze while Newt relays his newest adventures.

Best of friends, he relents, as Percival hands him a frightened but healed bowtruckle—later named Pickett—who was accidentally rescued during one of their raids. His best friend who befriends Newt’s creatures and endears himself to little Jo and schedules in the educational seminars mentioned long ago so that Newt can enlighten his aurors.

They’re friends, he concludes, running his fingers through Percival’s soft, unmade hair, its owner currently dozing on Newt’s lap on a quiet evening at home.

_But maybe..._

Percival mumbles sleepily, squeezing at where their left hands are tangled together.

 _Maybe they aren’t_  just _friends_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who sets chapter numbers and never follows them? Answer: Me.
> 
> But I think this is it. They're getting married next chapter and it will be happy ending and I'll be finally friggin' done and apologies to aliaaaaaa who wasn't expecting slowburn and angst hahahahahahaha never trust me okay
> 
> Thank you all you patient lovelies who have been waiting for the actual get together it's heeeeeeeeeere. Have a great week!

One evening in Newt’s twenty-eighth autumn, he kisses Percival on a hunch.

It’s a good hunch, he reasons.

It took another couple months after the small but significant personal revelation for him to sensibly assume that Percival's affection was more than platonic (mainly because he went away for those couple months due to it being mating season for some creatures). If he can say so himself, Newt's quite experienced at being in love, and what he felt, he saw reflected in Percival’s eyes.

And so, as summer turns to fall, he comes home—Percival’s home to be exact, but as much his own, now—Percival at the door before he can even knock, greeting Newt with a beautiful, delighted, most definitely happy-to-see-you smile. And before he can even welcome him back, unable to resist, Newt sets down his suitcase and grabs his friend with both hands by his head, simultaneously pulling him forward and nudging his chin up, and seals his lips over the ones beneath him.

His first kiss, he thinks giddily, smiling against a muffled yelp, then presses deeper. The joy when Percival responds nearly overwhelms him and he makes some kind of noise before drawing back because he needs to see—

—wide eyes, wet lips, and red cheeks, a shiver when Newt brushes his thumb over the shell of Percival’s ear. He leans back in—

“Wait,” Percival rasps, hand against Newt’s chest, stopping him.

And for the next few seconds, they simply breathe together, Newt taking in every detail he can from this distance, catching the movement of the other's throat when he swallows.

“What is it?” he asks, a bit impatient.

“This—I’m not—” Percival tries and shivers again because Newt caresses his jaw, cheekbone, can’t keep his hands still. “This isn’t—”

But Newt doesn’t have time for doubts and excuses, not when they’ve waited for so long, not when it had taken his whole life to get here.

“Do you like me, Percival?” Newt cuts in gently.

Percival’s mouth opens and closes, expression adorably bashful, then in the next moment says quietly, “Yes.”

Newt lets go with one hand and covers Percival’s on his chest, grasps it tight. “Do you love me, Percival?”

To his shock, the man’s face falls, guilt and shame and regret colouring his features. “I’m sorry, Newt,” he says as he tries to pull away. “I have no right to—”

“ _No_ ,” and the word comes out rather fiercely, surprising them both, but Newt has no intention of letting Percival go. “No, don’t think about what happened in the past, what you should have done, any of those things. That’s not what I’m asking here.”

Percival stills, meeting Newt’s gaze with a troubled one of his own. Newt takes the chance to slide his hand from Percival’s cheek to the back of his neck and draw him closer, encounters no resistance and gently touches their foreheads together.

“Tell me,” Newt pleads desperately because this is _it_  for him, closing his eyes because he can’t bear it. “I love you, I always have—” he ignores the wounded noise Percival makes, swallows and continues, “—and if you tell me ‘no’, then I’ll stop. I swear this will be the last time.” He opens his eyes, see that Percival has closed his, looking so unsure and out-of-depth that Newt almost wishes he could stop. “But don’t lie to me; tell me I'm not hallucinating things,” Newt finishes.

“Do you love me?” he asks one more time, brushing at the short hairs underneath his fingers.

Seconds that feel like minutes and hours pass, and with his heart pounding painfully against his rib cage, Newt waits.

And then he feels it, the smallest of nods against where they’re touching which he might have mistaken for a negative shake if it weren't for Percival opening his eyes again, full of anguish and longing. Newt's having trouble breathing all of a sudden, throat tight as a sob rises in his chest. But instead of bursting out crying, he channels that pressure into their second kiss, pours out all the relief and frustration of years and sheer happiness into it. His heart sings when Percival responds just as eagerly, unoccupied hand going to Newt's waist. Though clumsy and unpracticed, a true novice in the ways of intimacy, Newt more than makes up for it with enthusiasm, joining their mouths over and over again because dear god, he’s allowed this. And Percival meets him each time, lips soft and yielding, and it’s a sensation unlike any other he has experienced before.

When he comes back to his senses, he realises he's holding Percival against the wall as if determined to trap him, but his friend seems content to be his captive. He needs to breathe, though, so Newt reluctantly breaks off for now.

 _Oh my god_ , he thinks wildly, _I just kissed the heck out of my friend_ , squeezes the hand in his, brings his other one up to stroke through Percival’s hair.

“Will you marry me, now?” he jokes breathlessly, grinning madly because he can’t contain the chaotic emotions within him.

Percival looks at him dumbfounded for a moment before laughing, belly-deep and full, and Newt kisses the delightful sound right out of his mouth.

 

 

Later on, they talk.

It turns out that Percival was in a similar situation, wanting but having no intention to act upon it.

“It would have been utterly shameless and insulting on my part,” he reveals slowly, eyes distant as if lost in his memories. “I didn’t, back then; you really were a brother to me, one I wanted to cherish. But then to turn around and admit it like I’ve changed my mind, like it’s suddenly convenient for me because my head and heart now perceive you differently—that wouldn’t be fair to you when you deserve better than the whims of an old, foolish man.”

It prompts Newt to ask, “If I hadn’t asked, would you have ever—”

Percival shakes his head, lips twisting in a bitter smile. “Forgive me, but I'd have remained a coward.”

There’s nothing to forgive here in Newt’s opinion, pointless to ponder 'what-ifs' when they already have what they want; when Percival whispers his love with a hand on Newt’s cheek and adoration in his gaze, when Newt murmurs his into Percival’s neck, holding him tight. They go to bed that night separately, sharing lingering glances before they part for their respective rooms like they’re scared this might be a hoax, and Newt doesn’t fall asleep until the excitement of the day fades in early hours of the morning.

He wakes up to the smell of food, finds Percival standing in the kitchen with his back to Newt and looking out the window a steaming mug in hand. The table is set next to him, baked goods kept warm with a charm and jams and butter for spreads. For a brief moment, Newt wonders if he dreamed all of last night, as groggy as he is from lacking proper sleep.

Only one way to find out.

Percival turns as he approaches, a small smile on his face. Newt leans in, closes his eyes as Percival’s widen and presses their lips together, a bit sorry for his morning breath. He hears a noise of shock in response and pulls back, sees red in those cheeks but no apprehension.

“Good morning,” Newt smiles, and it widens when Percival returns it.

“So, it wasn’t a dream,” Percival vocalizes Newt’s own thoughts.

“Nope,” and never has he been happier to say the word.

He tries to steal another kiss because he’s already hopelessly addicted to the act but Percival huffs and tells him to go wash up first. He lets Newt have a lot of them afterwards.

After Percival leaves for work, Newt feeds his creatures in a daze, muses if it’s actually possible for someone to attain this much happiness at once. Even when Pickett bites him in reaction to being startled awake by the other bowtruckles, he’s grinning dopily while wiping his bleeding finger on his trousers.

It was worth it, he thinks, all the waiting and heartache and hopelessness he felt, to have someone he loves love him in return.

The novelty of this development stays with him for days, enjoying the freedom of holding hands and pressing close together and kissing the man whenever he wants—except inside the Woolworth Building since according to Percival, he’d like to save himself and his aurors the embarrassment of acting like and witnessing a besotted sap, respectively. And that’s perfectly fine, as long as they know that Percival is no longer available relationship-wise.

No one dares mention their relationship in Percival’s presence for fear of repercussions—of course they know, they’re not blind to their Director’s blissful look when he thinks they’re being inattentive—but they congratulate Newt in private and wish him luck, making him stammer and blush.

However, their efforts are useless because Percival tells him one evening that he knows—how can he not when they’re _staring holes into his face, Mercy Lewis_ , possibly in need of a serious refresher on subtlety—but appreciates their professionalism and discretion nonetheless.

Professionalism, right. In Newt’s opinion, Percival can afford to be a bit friendlier with his aurors but that’s up to him, he supposes.

No matter; it doesn’t affect him really because his _boyfriend_ —and goodness, it makes him flush even thinking about it—is sweet on him all the same. At home, he wraps an arm around Newt when curled on the sofa together, presses kisses into his hair, and, in one memorable instance, hugged him from behind as he brewed a cuppa. He allows Newt to kiss him breathless, to lie on his lap, to drag him out for walks in the park while holding hands.

When Newt informs his family the next week, they aren’t the least bit surprised. There’s a general tone of _finally_  in the conversation they have, and Theseus even goes so far as to ask when they’re getting married.

The day he has to leave again, Newt is incredibly torn for the first time. He had always been a little reluctant to leave even before all this, but the call of a new adventure awaiting him was far more potent. Percival has to reassure him that it’s alright, yes, they’ll still be boyfriends, no, he can’t go on vacation right now, _here’s your goodbye kiss and there will be plenty more when you come back, Newt_.

He’s a little perturbed that Percival seems unaffected by their parting so soon after a budding relationship, easily sending Newt off. But then he gets his first letter of the trip and seeing it beginning with ‘My darling Newt’ and signed ‘Love, Percival’ has him over the moon and back, leaves him giggling in a way that frightens Gladys which is saying something. He’s an utter lovesick fool, and he wouldn’t change it if given the choice to.

 

 

Their lives start to integrate irreversibly. Newt unofficially consults on cases on a semi-regular basis until it becomes more or less official with the President’s permission, and Percival helps him with the rounds whenever he can. The department slowly but surely changes its views on creatures and the day they make the first successful amendment to the laws, Newt forgets himself and kisses Percival in elation in front of everyone, and they all cheer loudly to both their embarrassment.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Auror O’Brien had shouted as they fled the scene into the office.

And his creatures appreciate the way Percival cares for them. There are times when Percival will come home exhausted and he’ll fall asleep on his feet while feeding them even if he doesn't have to. The mooncalves will bowl him over and surround the man to cuddle him back to sleep, having done it enough times with Newt when he was tired. Josephine loves him almost as much Newt does and she opts to stay with his boyfriend the next time he goes away, the little traitor, but truth be told he couldn’t be happier. The next time he visits Theresa and Professor Kettleburn, he tells them stories about his adventures and all his encounters with the creatures, unconsciously mentioning Percival quite often. Theresa teases him about his ‘sweetheart’ to which Newt can finally, proudly say that _yes, he is_ , and the professor is sceptical about whether Percival treats the creatures right, much to Newt’s amusement.

“He’s not too shabby, professor,” Newt chuckles. “I can even leave Josephine with him,” and only then does he actually believe Newt.

Their intimacy steadily grows, too, both somehow wordlessly agreeing to let it occur naturally as they continue to navigate this relationship together. His sexual desire for Percival comes as a foreign, intimidating feeling at first, but his darling is ever patient with him, waiting and guiding Newt as he needs it. And knowing that he can wholly trust Percival with something as personal as this, Newt soon gains confidence and learns to ask for it, to initiate it, discovers how much he wants it.

It's unexpectedly Percival who approaches this carefully, conservatively, eventually revealing that he has his doubts about being attractive to Newt as someone who is much older and, according to him, _worn out_. It had upset Newt to hear that, but that night ended with him showing his lover exactly how attractive he found him so he counted it as a win.

There's something oddly tender about the sexual intimacy between them that makes Newt want to cry at times, when he's staring into Percival's open and loving gaze as they’re connected, seeing the pleasure that Newt gives him manifest on his face, in his voice and body, having that same pleasure reciprocated because Percival wants that for him. It might be that since he has no basis for sex within the context of a relationship, everything is new and exciting and overwhelming, but he sincerely hopes that he will always feel this way.

One of the best things about this progression is that he usually falls asleep with Percival being the last thing he sees and the first thing when he wakes. Due to his mind constantly working, Percival is generally a light sleeper, jolting awake easily from noise. So it's wonderful to see how he becomes accustomed to Newt's presence in his bedroom and the ease with which he relaxes in his sleep with Newt by his side. With each nightmare they each wake from and the comfort they receive immediately after, their trust grow for one another, allowing themselves to be vulnerable with each other.

It's rather frightening, Newt muses another time as he strokes Percival's hair and watches the man sleep peacefully, to give so much of yourself to one person. But they've both worked hard to earn it, never taking it for granted because they've already lost each other once. And that's good enough for him.

On weekends, Percival likes to sleep in, catching all the hours he wasn't able to during the week, and sometimes Newt will wake him with slow arousal which either ends up as soft, sleepy sex or him being kicked out of bed. The latter then leads to Newt asking for forgiveness with freshly brewed coffee.

There are downsides to being in a loving relationship as well, unfortunately.

After Newt moves into the bedroom, small conflicts arise as a result of differing preferences and ways of living. Percival is meticulous and habitual whereas Newt thrives in organised chaos and spontaneity. Percival plans their dates ahead of time whereas Newt will be randomly inspired and drag him somewhere to do something. He complains about Newt’s increasing pile of discarded clothing atop a perfectly functional dresser even though Newt knows exactly where to find what he needs, and Newt pointedly remarks that a missing punctuation does _not_  in fact ruin a legible and comprehensive report.

As well, with both of them working considerably dangerous jobs, they have arguments regarding one another's safety and recklessness. Newt gets seriously injured on one of the raids because he jumped in front of a spell meant for an auror who had his back turned with no time to shield it, and Percival nearly bans him permanently from field work for cases.

But as if Percival is one to talk about safety, facing criminals almost daily. Even the best of aurors can make mistakes. The scars all over his body speak for themselves that Percival himself has had some close calls, and it chills Newt to the bone that these have happened in his absence, that Percival could have died and Newt would have been none-the-wiser until he was attending a funeral. The thought hits him hard one night as he traces those scars and he cries his fears and worries into Percival's chest as the man holds him, rubbing a hand over Newt’s back until he calms down.

“We should get married,” Newt sniffs afterwards, head pillowed on his lover's shoulder as fingers play with his curls. “That way I have the legal right to immediately know everything that goes on with you. We can spell the wedding bands as a security measure which you like so much—”

“Newt, sweetheart, calm down,” Percival interrupts gently. “That’s not something to be rushed. I’m still here, perfectly alive and well, so let’s think about that later, hm?”

Newt disagrees and he shows it by lifting his head and glaring. He thinks it's a brilliant idea, one that should be put into action right away. But oh, maybe Percival doesn’t want to marry him and he's getting ahead of himself—and then Percival is kissing him, lightly at first then deeper, drawing a whimper out of him.

“Go to bed, Newt,” Percival murmurs as they part. “We can talk about it later.”

 

 

They don't talk about it right away, though, busy with work and Newt being embarrassed in the aftermath of his behaviour. Percival was right to an extent, that his heightened emotions got the better of him and pushed him into a panicked state; but now that it has surfaced in his mind, the idea refuses to leave.

Can he and Percival really get married?

It was an elusive concept for so long that Newt had pretty much given up on it, but now they’ve reached a point where it can be realistically considered. Newt is twenty-nine, a more than reasonable age to marry, and he’d love to be responsible for Percival for the rest of their lives. He finds himself caught up in staring especially at their hands, imagining matching rings on them, occasionally hooks his pointer around Percival’s ring finger in a makeshift band, confusing his boyfriend sometimes.

Theseus, supportive but more amused than anything, suggests talking to his parents first to show his intentions toward their son before he does anything. The reminder that he hasn’t seen them in years plus Percival's perplexed glance when Newt asks how his parents are doing stabs at him guiltily, but he manages to stumble through a vague explanation and gets his opportunity to write them.

Newt visits on his next trip after being granted permission, dropping by briefly before he leaves the country. He brings them gifts, premium wine (a tip from mum) and exotic, foreign goods picked up from all over the world, and he’s surprised when they welcome him warmly like he’s their family, a nephew of sorts. Mrs. Graves has always been an elegant woman, still is even now, and Mr. Graves gives off a softer impression from what he remembers, less sharp and stiff, but intimidating and charismatic all the same. They are as lovely a couple as ever.

It almost makes him feel bad when Mr. Graves spits out the wine and Mrs. Graves chokes on a biscuit in shock in response to his announcing of intentions. The three of them sit in awkward, embarrassed silence for a while and Newt glances up occasionally to see them silently communicating with one another, unable to understand what those looks mean.

“What does Percival think, dear?” Mrs. Graves asks eventually, dabbing a handkerchief to her mouth.

“Oh, um, I intend to ask him properly soon, Mrs. Graves,” Newt answers nervously, fingers drumming against his knees. “We’ve talked briefly in passing but we’re amenable to the idea.”

Sort of. Newt will make sure Percival is also amenable to it.

“This seems rather sudden,” Mr. Graves remarks. “I thought you two were friends?”

“Yes! I mean, sorry, yes, we are, but... It’s not that sudden, actually,” Newt pauses, bites his lip because he’s caught in an unexpected dilemma: to reveal what Percival seems to have neglected mentioning or not, unsure if it’s his position to. But he did come here to receive permission so... “We’ve been in an emotionally and sexually intimate relationship since last year fall.”

Perhaps he could have worded that better, he thinks as Mr. Graves starts coughing and Mrs. Graves gasps and covers her mouth but it’s the most straightforward and clear explanation he could come up with. He tries not to squirm in discomfort as they share another silent conversation, something furious going back and forth between.

Mrs. Graves turns to him with a gentle smile. “I see; I wonder why our son failed to tell us this,” and Newt shrugs helplessly. “In that case, please come join us for dinner one night _with Percival_  so we can give you both our blessings.”

And though it’s said lightly, Newt can’t help but feel it’s more a threat than a request. He thinks his boyfriend might be in trouble.

“We will?” Mr. Graves starts, then quiets at a _look_  from his wife, grumbles something under his breath.

Despite their hospitality and lack of ill will towards Newt for taking their son, so to speak, he’s glad to be out of their house and on his way. Pickett reflects what he feels by heaving a great sigh and chittering tiredly as he walks to the train station.

“They're wonderful people, but I think I surprised them too much; not very good with these kinds of things, you know? Maybe I should I have been more discreet,” Newt sighs. “Do you think Percival will be alright?”

Pickett shakes his head.

“Neither do I,” he mutters. “Well, it’s his fault, anyway.”

Which brings up the question of why Percival didn't tell his parents about them. He asks the next time they talk through a fire call and it’s nothing malicious: Percival had simply been too occupied and forgot.

“We aren’t the most communicative family,” he confesses. “Mother tries, bless her, but you know my father and me, being Graves men and all. It’s not that you aren’t important, honest.”

“Still,” Newt frowns. “It doesn’t really matter all that much to me but I think I gave your parents a scare.”

“Of course you did,” Percival says dryly. “What were you doing there, by the way?”

“Just—just saying hello, seeing how they’re doing,” Newt replies hastily. “They want us over for dinner some time.”

“Is that so,” and even through the fire pit he can see Percival’s suspiciousness clearly.

“I miss you,” Newt blurts out as a distraction but it’s the truth nonetheless.

“The feeling is mutual,” Percival says, and Newt grins. “But do make this trip count and take all the time you need. Pass on my regards to your suitcase, darling.”

“I will,” he promises, then sighs. “I want to kiss you.”

“Please don’t set yourself on fire, unless it's figuratively,” his boyfriend huffs amusedly. “Good night, Newt.”

The sight of Percival disappearing from view will never not dismay him, but Newt is encouraged by his words to enjoy this last trip. It isn't final in the forever sense, but Newt believes this will be it for a while because he will be collecting the last of the materials for the book. He needs a few more diagrams and information that he wasn't able to acquire due to missed timing, and after that he'll be releasing some creatures back in the wild before heading back. It’ll take him two months at most.

But of course, things never really go as planned since Newt can never resist a creature in need of rescue—a thunderbird from an underground circus in Europe, an erumpent being chased by hunters, an injured murtlap, and in one unique case, saving a human who was about to have his head eaten by a swooping evil. Though Newt takes in the creature briefly for studies, it seems to enjoy his suitcase and pockets enough that it wouldn’t fly away after being set free. _Respect the creature’s choice_  he remembers, and welcomes his newest companion.

In spite of going off-schedule, he believes it’s better in the grand scheme of things.

It’s just as well since he received a letter from Percival saying that he’ll be busier than usual with a few high profile cases on his plate on top of meetings and the semi-annual Congress gathering, a whole bunch of other political nonsense and a possible threat. That last part had sounded ominous but Percival talks about threats all the time like any other person would the weather because the officials at MACUSA are a paranoid lot, what with their extreme form of the Statute of Secrecy in Rappaport's Law and all.

On that note, Newt's very presence is technically a threat to New York because of his suitcase but they haven't had any incidents so far— _and there never should be, Newt_ , he can almost hear Percival saying—since Newt has been careful as to not cause his lover any trouble. The power of love at work, he supposes.

And that same power of love is what has him checking the news whenever he can to confirm that New York and MACUSA have survived another day.

Newt replies with his own change in schedule and extended trip, says that he'll try to be home as soon as possible, demands for Percival to _please_  take care of himself and eat and sleep properly. Percival can be a helpless child at times when it comes to his own well-being so Morgana forbid that he work himself to sickness as is his wont. 

 

Four months into the trip, Newt realises that he hasn’t talked to Percival in a while. The last time he remembers is the letter he sent at the beginning of last month and now it's the end of the next. Admittedly, he has been out in the wild more than rooms in buildings, never mind ones with a fireplace, but Percival has yet to reply at all. Is he still that busy?

According to Theseus, yes. So busy, in fact, that the man has been rather clipped and distant with his co-workers again. Typical of Percival to withdraw into himself when he's stressed, he can hear his brother sigh through the letter.

It'd be prudent of Newt, then, to send more encouraging words to his overworked love. He also asks if they can set a date in the near future for a fire call and informs him that he's nearly done, and will be home in the next month or so—which isn't that much longer and Newt can probably wait until then to see the real thing, but why do that when he wants to talk to him now? And surely Percival will want the same.

His letter comes back. Not a reply but his very own. At first, Newt's confused; he thinks perhaps Percival wrote on the same paper and resealed it for some strange reason—maybe he ran out of paper, which makes Newt snort because that's next to impossible—but that's not the case, and there’s not even a trace of magically hidden ink. There are legitimate reasons as to why a letter doesn’t reach someone in the magical world; the owl can’t find the person or the person is dead being the main ones. And his owl never fails to find Percival.

It's too early to conclude anything, Newt forces himself to rationalize. It would have taken her a week at most to deliver the letter and Percival could have been doing _something_ at the time that didn't allow him to receive it somehow.

It comes back a second time, then a third. And that's as good a sign for Newt to go home. If this is a prank—which he can’t imagine it being—it’s not very funny and he might have to retaliate. But he realises instinctively that there’s something very wrong, and instead of asking Theseus who has open, official access to Percival, Newt would rather see for himself instead of waiting for any news.

On the long trip back to New York, Newt finds yet another nest of occamy eggs in stasis being smuggled on one of the ships and he quietly slips them into his suitcase—or tries to. One of the henchmen managing the shipment catch him and he ends up in a short scuffle with the man before easily subduing him. There was a heart-stopping moment in which one of the man’s spells glanced off his suitcase but it only damaged the lock slightly and nothing more, thank goodness.

The babies hatch soon after being released from the spell and then he’s busy feeding and caring for them, serving as a decent distraction from his thoughts.

“I’m not your biological mother, but I’ll do my best,” he whispers to them as they sleep, grinning when one snorts cutely.

New York, when he lands, is a rather dreary sight in comparison to some of the lively and colourful countries he recently visited. Cold, too, he grumbles inwardly as he wraps his scarf tighter around himself, but all the more to look forward to warming himself up in Percival’s arms. Foolishly optimistic, perhaps, but it’s better than thinking about other alternatives.

The newspaper he picks up after passing customs talks about an imminent threat to America from this Grindelwald fellow because of his dark magic activities in Europe that seemed to be heading in this direction. Newt encountered and avoided some dark wizarding groups on his travels as well, and he wonders if they are related. Either way, it doesn’t sound good, and this is something that definitely would have kept Percival occupied.

He runs into Tina on his way to the Woolworth Building, literally, and they spend the first few minutes of their reunion shoving Josephine back into the partially opened case and running away from prying eyes. Tina shoots a glare at him as if asking, “Really?” and Newt smiles sheepishly as he explains that he hasn’t had a chance to fix the lock yet. Instead of the smile he expected, Tina continues to look angry which makes him nervous. But it crumples into distress, then she proceeds to drag him off-course and to her flat, ignoring his protests.

“ _Where were you?_ ” she demands once they’re indoors after he exchanges polite greetings with her sister Queenie.

“Well, uh, you know,” he replies. “Don’t you?”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t be away for so long anymore,” she grits out.

Newt feels a bit hurt; certainly they’re not the best of friends but he didn’t expect such hostility upon his return.

“Tina, honey,” Queenie softly interrupts as she brings over a tray of tea and biscuits, “you’re upsetting the poor man. Why don’t you calm down and start over? A bit of niceness wouldn’t hurt.”

Looking up in surprise at the woman who is essentially a stranger, Newt thanks her as she hands him a cup.

“You’re welcome, sweetie, and don’t worry; Tina isn’t actually angry with you,” she says kindly. “Oh, and I’m sorry we don’t have your favourite tea. We don’t usually have many guest over to warrant a variety of choices.”

A little bewildered, Newt mouths _Legilimens?_  at her and receives a wink in response.

“Yes, you’re right,” Tina sighs, deflating visibly when he turns back to her. “I’m sorry, Newt. I’m glad you’re back, really.”

“What’s going on, Tina?” he asks, getting straight to the point. “Why did you stop me from going to see Percival?”

Tina glances down at the table and bites her lip, and she suddenly looks so small compared to her usual daring and bold demeanour. It’s unsettling to see her this way, and it only confirms that something is very much not right.

“Mr. Graves...” she starts hesitantly, “Mr. Graves might not really be himself.”

“I gathered as much,” Newt shrugs, trying to meet her eyes for once because she won’t. “You did threaten me before to reduce the length of my trips because he wasn’t the nicest to be around when I wasn’t there.”

“It wasn’t a _threat_ , she splutters, finally raising her head as Queenie giggles. “A friendly suggestion, if anything. And it wasn’t me, it was—”

“Including you,” is Newt’s dry remark.

“Alright, fine,” she rolls her eyes, but some of the twinkling is back, her lips twitching. “But anyway, that’s not what I mean,” she continues, frowning again. “Mr. Graves _literally_  might not be himself.

Newt blinks, tries to process that. “Is he unwell? I did tell him to take care but, Mercy Lewis, he really never listens, does he—”

“Newt,” Tina cuts in sharply, and her expression isn’t exactly helping him not to worry. “Just listen for a bit, alright?”

She then proceeds to unfold how in the beginning, Percival seemed his usual self if a little more intense at work, shaking his head at their antics and correcting reports and refresher courses every other week. And the rare smile they always hope to see, if only to be reassured that he isn’t completely devoid of any joy whatsoever. They didn’t point out that he was going home later than usual and earlier than everyone else even when there was nothing in particular that needed to be done, only earned a scathing glare when they tried to convince him to leave. So they left him alone, instead leaving coffees and pastries on his desk without being invasive since they figured Newt will be back soon anyway. But then he started refusing them one day, brought his own lunch consisting of salads and _then_  they figured Newt must have said something, collectively relieved.

So they didn’t think too much of it when he looked healthier overall, stood taller and straighter, back to his frowning, commanding self. But subtle changes were noticed in the department: occasionally delayed feedback on a report, new perspectives during cases and operations, an inexplicable feeling of distance from the Director, and frequent absences due to meetings with the President even though he hates those and would do anything to not participate. He’d order tasks that seemingly weren’t relevant to anything they were working on, didn’t accept questions about them and eventually the assigned auror would shut up and do as they were told. Several of them started suspecting, including Tina, and the ultimate clue was that when Auror O’Brien—three and a half months after he had left—joked about Newt running away again—

“Yes, I know,” Tina sighs when Newt frowns. “Auror Perkins smacked him for that. _Men_. Anyway—”

—there was no reaction. Not a single twitch of lips or narrowing of eyes, no protests or reprimands when they had expected the Director to maim him for such a comment about his lover. He had looked like he couldn’t care less, in fact. And, well, that was as obvious as it got.

“Because he always reacts to anything regarding you, you know?” Tina explains. “And then I got caught up in an incident and he kicked me out of the department like I was good riddance—”

“What?” Newt exclaims. “How could he do that?”

“Like I said, there’s something off,” Tina grimaces. “I deserved punishment, but it’s more that he completely disregarded me afterwards that was strange, like there was no hope for me to redeem myself. Mr. Graves is never one to condemn anyone like that.

“Some of us are trying to find out exactly what that is secretly, because at least half the department doesn’t seem to notice and are utterly obedient to everything he says, but it’s difficult. He’s still sharp and observant, not wanting toes out of line, and too strong for any of us. I think the best thing is to show you at this point, but don’t act like you know him and let’s see what happens.”

“It might just be a curse of sorts and we only need to catch him off guard to subdue him so we can figure it out,” Tina finishes and rubs her forehead tiredly.

Newt unconsciously releases a distressed sound after hearing everything, remembering the letters that never reached its recipient. It could be something much worse than a curse, he thinks hysterically, and watches Tina’s face soften in sympathy. Queenie takes one of his hands and pats it gently.

“It’ll be okay,” Queenie tries to comfort, but Newt shakes his head and draws back.

“Don’t, please,” he mumbles, hunching in on himself.

“I’m sorry, Newt,” Tina apologises again, “you must be tired. I’ll let you sleep and then we can head over first thing tomorrow.”

That’s unacceptable, because Percival was always there when Newt needed him and now it’s his turn to help. And whoever thought to even harm a hair on his head had better hope that Newt doesn’t find them or else they will more than regret it.

He ignores Queenie’s gasp and looks up, determined and angry. “Let’s go.”

And Tina blinks in surprise. “Are you sure? I don’t think a day would make a difference; you should really rest—”

“I’m certain. The sooner I can confirm that he’s fine, the better.”

Tina searches his face for a moment, then nods. “Alright. Here’s what we’ll do...”

 

 

Whatever they plan goes flying out the metaphorical window because as soon as Newt comes face-to-face with Percival sitting in his office, receives a dismissive, vaguely curious glance, his whole body screams that _this isn’t him_. There are things one learns about a person after knowing them for over twenty years; things that are instinctively recognised, things that have unconsciously been ingrained so deep into one’s mind. And all those things that come to the forefront of Newt’s thoughts tell him that this man standing here is _not Percival Graves_.

It’s a split second after he snarls that this stranger flicks his hand out at the same time Newt pulls out the cocoon residing in his coat, reflexes honed for years from fighting against malicious groups of people and Percival himself saving him in time. Gary spreads like a shield against the opposing magic and like his namesake, swoops in and knocks the person over. Tina is yelling something behind him and there's a rush of footsteps coming towards them, but Newt heeds none of it as he strides forward, disarming and binding, then holds this man at wandpoint. By now, aurors have filled the room, some pointing their wands at him while others at 'Percival’.

“ _Revelio_ ,” Newt mutters, clenches his jaw as the air shimmers and melts away the handsome face, uncovering a sneering old man.

Stunned silence.

“Grindelwald,” he hears someone whisper, feels another pat his shoulder as they step past him.

“Welcome back, Newt,” says Senior Auror Fontaine, then he and the other Senior Aurors proceed to reinforce the bindings.

Newt watches with numbness, the way Gary bites down a little harder on the man's head of white hairs, the smug look in mismatched eyes before they lighten with recognition.

“So, you’re Newt,” the man speaks, adding to an already tense atmosphere.

Newt doesn’t respond, firming his mouth against the words that want to spill out, words that demand Percival's status, his location. Fortunately, the man seems to like talking.

“You were the most closely guarded secret,” he continues. “Even impressed me, that I was able to access MACUSA much easier compared to anything about you. I would have found out soon enough, but it seems timing was on your side this once—”

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Grindelwald; you have a few choices and I do hope you pick wisely,” Newt interrupts, sick to his stomach and unable to enjoy causing the man annoyance. But he strengthens himself for Percival. “You can choose to be eaten alive by Gary who enjoys human brains or see how long you will last from his venom, you can test your resistance against a nundu who will gladly share her breath with you, or try to survive listening to a fwooper for an hour. And there’s always the fun of exploding to bits from an erumpent’s fluids. All of these things are at my disposal so I can accommodate you the best I can.”

Again, everyone is at a loss for words and he can't be bothered to see who is about to faint or the way they shift away from him; all his focus is on the shocked face of Grindelwald, who seems to doubt how serious Newt is.

“If you choose all of the above, that can be arranged as well,” Newt offers.

“Mercy Lewis...”

“That _has_  to be illegal.”

Murmurs start to fill the room and Grindelwald looks around bewildered as if someone might help. His predicament seems to sink in when Gary bites again, drawing blood.

“Or,” and Newt closes the remaining distance, leans over the desk into a pale face going paler, “you can tell me where he is.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to say this... I've been sitting on this chapter a while, writing bit by bit when time/inspiration/motivation permitted, wrote ending after ending because as always, my problem is that I create too big of a situation to solve neatly in one go. I've read it over too many times yet not enough but it's time to let it go, I think.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read this and liked it and waited for it. Super determined to finish a story before I post it next time, haha.

Theseus is absolutely furious when he finds out. He barges into MACUSA as soon as he can with a team in tow and demands that they hand over Grindelwald so he can do things to the man that Newt cannot bear to repeat. The aurors looks between him and his brother afterwards, curiously enough, as if coming to a realisation.

“That’s where he gets it from,” he hears one of them mutter and another nods in agreement.

How peculiar.

There's a bit of tension now between the Ministry and the Investigations team because they’re both seeking to punish the criminal for their own reasons; the Ministry because Grindelwald is their jurisdiction and they want full authority over the proceedings, the Congress because the wizard harmed one of their own and want justice to be served as they deem appropriate.

But that's a political battle Newt wants no part of, only here to greet his brother anyway.

They embrace one another and Theseus scolds him for facing Grindelwald by himself, has to be the most reckless thing Newt has ever done, he says.

“But you did well,” he admits, sighing in that fond, exasperated way reserved for Newt. “Take care of him, alright? I’ll make sure that bastard gets what he deserves.”

Newt swallows around a suddenly tight throat and he’s glad for his brother's presence here. “Why did it have to happen to him?”

Theseus’s face holds a deep weariness reminding Newt that he isn’t immune to the weight he bears on a daily basis, made heavier with incidents like these. Newt hurts for the grim lines he sees around the mouth and eyes.

“It’s not something I can easily explain, little brother,” Theseus says. “His position is likely what Grindelwald wanted rather than targeting Percival specifically, though I suppose we’ll find out the details through interrogation,” Theseus frowns harder, laying a hand on Newt’s trembling shoulder. “We can’t always hope to see why evil people do evil things, only stop them and protect those in need. I’m just glad we found him.”

His voice shakes a little at the end before clearing it, claps Newt’s shoulder once more and nods, then leaves with his team. Without speaking to anyone else, Newt heads for the infirmary.

Indeed, they found Percival. It had taken everything Newt had to stay calm in the face of such a devastating sight when they discovered him in the confines of an inconspicuous wooden box on a shelf in his home—like some kind of _decoration_ —after Grindelwald revealed his location. He had been crusted with dirt and blood and smelling of something rotten, still bleeding sluggishly from some wounds, trembling hard enough to shatter apart as he tore into his own lips with teeth like he was holding back screams. Shackles were bound to wrists and ankles, cursed to suppress his magic. Newt had immediately removed his coat to cover the poor man as he bit back his own cries and tears, and snapped at the aurors to open his suitcase and inform the healing wards of an incoming emergency. He had refused to let them help, to look upon his lover with pity and horror, because Percival was _alive_  and it was his strength and resilience they should focus on. And so he had whisked Percival into the suitcase as carefully as he could and took him to the wards where he began the battle for survival.

Newt enters the wards and makes his way around until he reaches a private room, lifts aside the curtains around the bed to a sight he has grown painfully accustomed to.

Percival remains as still and quiet on the infirmary’s bed as ever, breathing and not much more. His skin has lost much of its dead, sickly quality thanks to the healers but the sunken face visible even beneath the beard and skinny arms atop the sheets tells much about his state of recovery.

Even now Newt wishes to avenge him as well as unleash his own form of justice upon Grindelwald for taking away Newt's loved one and hurting him badly. Threatening and frightening the man had not been enough, yet as one who has experienced countless forms of violence through war and his travels, he couldn’t exact the kind of vengeance he desired.

That’s why he sits here at Percival’s side stewing in helpless anger and sorrow trapped in a chest cavity pulling apart at the seams. Newt takes one of his deceptively warm hands and presses it to his lips in greeting, then starts talking.

He talks about his day which mainly consists of visiting Percival, working on his book, feeding his creatures and providing whatever help he can with the investigations into the Grindelwald case—the same things he has been saying for the past few days. Today, he secretly lets out Josephine who has missed Percival in particular, and watches her crawl over and sit forlornly on the man's chest, peering at him with sad eyes. The sight almost breaks Newt.

“Look who’s here, Percy,” he says softly, trying not to let his voice waver on the name he wanted to call for so long but only now having the confidence to do so when he can’t hear it. “She’s being a good girl today; not a single one of your silver pens has been misplaced, you know?”

Not even the temptation of Percival’s favourite creature is enough, and Josephine burrows herself under the covers at his side wanting to be comforted, perhaps.

The silence soon becomes stifling after Newt stops his one-sided conversation, and he brings out the book he brought with him—an old copy of The Jungle Book, worn in a well-loved kind of way with the edges of the cover fraying and the picture on the front fading. The idea had come to him when he found the book during a clean-up of Percival's house, wanting to purge the place of all influences of the imposter for when Percival would wake.

He opens it and starts reading out loud.

As he reads, he also comments on different parts, recalling his favourite moments from when Percival read this book with him. Some make him laugh and smile fondly, others bring him close to tears but he swallows them down, continues as steadily as he can.

His voice is hoarse by the end, but it leaves his chest less emptier than it was in the morning. He's about to pack up and leave for the day when Theseus comes in, smiling at Newt.

“Were you here the whole day?” he asks. “I suspect you forgot to eat.”

Theseus holds out a paper bag and it's then that Newt realises the emptiness was not entirely due to his loneliness. He thanks him and takes a sandwich, watches quietly as his brother summons a chair to sit on the other side of the bed. Theseus’s expression turns sombre and pained when he looks at Percival, and it reminds Newt that his brother loves the man; not in the same way, but just as much. Guilt and anger are written all over his face but he doesn’t say anything and tears into his own sandwich.

“What's going to happen?” Newt eventually breaks the silence. “With—” he gestures vaguely.

Theseus sighs heavily, leans back into the chair and scrubs a hand down his face. “We’re keeping him here a couple more days for interrogation, then he'll be coming back with us to England at the end of the week.”

“I hate him, Theseus,” Newt blurts out, the words unbidden. “I wish—I wish he never—” and he breaks of with strangled noise, because that's a dangerous line of thought he shouldn't follow. What-ifs, should-haves... not when both he and his brother are miserable enough that they weren't here for Percival, were almost too late.

Theseus’s eyes are much too understanding when Newt meets them, and they crinkle as he smiles bitterly. “He'd kick both our arses if he saw us right now.”

“I know,” Newt mumbles in response, fiddling with the ends of his sleeves. “Well, maybe just yours. He'd probably kiss me.”

“Mercy Lewis,” Theseus groans, making a face. “Spare me the details.”

It has Newt’s lips pulling up in amusement and for this brief moment, with his brother near, he’s okay.

 

 

He’s not okay after Theseus leaves and Mr. and Mrs. Graves come visit, the poor mother just about fainting trying to remain strong even as she trembles, leaning into her husband while squeezing Newt's hand so tight that it hurts. Mr. Graves tells her it'll be alright as he takes her home afterwards, but the expression on his face as he catches Newt on the way out is painfully old and tired that it twists something in Newt's chest.

 

 

Newt's head snaps up, startled awake for some reason, and he immediately regrets the movement when the muscles in his neck, shoulders and back twinge painfully after remaining in one position for so long. Groaning, he pushes himself up from where he was bent over uncomfortably on the edge of Percival’s bed and stretches with a grimace. He gets up on numb, unstable legs as he does so and predictably stumbles back, the clattering of the chair loud in the otherwise silent room.

“Some of us are trying to sleep here.”

The quiet rasp has Newt stilling, breath caught in a suddenly tight throat. His eyes land the occupant of the bed, meet with another pair that are no longer closed. Tired, drowsy, but lucid. _Alive_.

“Merlin’s beard,” Newt breathes.

Percival snorts, a low, dry thing. “I must look it.”

And then he promptly coughs—hacks, really—spurring Newt into motion to grab the glass of water by his bedside and help him drink it. Newt’s hands shake too much to be of proper help but he at least prevents Percival from drinking to quickly. After putting the glass away and getting Percival settled again, Newt twists his hands into the sheets under the covers to hide them as well as stop himself from grabbing the man. He can’t take his eyes off the frail—a word he has never thought he would associate with Percival—form of his lover, fearing that he may blink awake from a good dream.

“How—” he starts, pauses. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” Percival replies with a sigh.

_How long have you been awake? What did he do to you? How long did he have you? I’m sorry I wasn’t there; I failed you—_

There are so many things Newt wants to say, ask, but they remain on the tip of his tongue and he’s rendered mute by the confusion of too many words fighting to be voiced in his head. But a single sentence emerges victorious above the rest.

“Marry me,” he blurts out.

Percival blinks wide, mouth ajar in obvious surprise, but it only strengthens Newt’s sudden resolve. He releases his grip on the fabric takes one of Percival’s hands, brings the other one up to cup his cheek. The bristles of his facial growth prickle the sensitive skin of his palm and it’s wonderful.

“I almost lost you,” Newt nearly chokes on the words, “and I had no way of knowing while you suffered at the hands of a madman. You had no charm or spell to protect you and nothing to inform me and even now if it wasn’t for Theseus I wouldn’t be here because I have no legal relation to you.” He’s practically spitting out the words now, growing more upset as the anxiety and fears and distress accumulated over the last couple weeks roil together as a maelstrom inside. “It’s about time we bind ourselves together. I love you, you bloody wanker, and if you have another damn excuse, Morgana help me—”

“Alright.”

Newt regards Percival who looks rather blurry at this point, his own jaw dropping.

“What?”

“I don’t appreciate being called a wanker, though, for future reference,” Percival continues casually. “That was almost a deal-breaker.”

“You’re lying,” Newt croaks out, dropping his hand from Percival's face to hold himself up shakily. It doesn’t do much good because slumps onto the side of the bed anyway.

“And now you call me a liar,” Percival frowns, brows furrowed as if offended. But then his eyes soften as he slowly swipes wetness from under Newt’s.

Oh, so that’s why it was blurry.

“Come here, Newt.”

Newt is drawn helplessly by the gentle command and he folds over, buries his face into Percival’s shoulder and spills all the tears he has been holding back all this time. Not once had he cried when they were taking Percival’s damaged body into the emergency wards, not when they prevented him from entering this room, not when they finally relayed the extent of the wounds inflicted upon Percival, and certainly not during the nights of such profound loneliness when the sound of both their breathing was the only thing that gave him hope.

Yet here, in the wake of such good news, he weeps his sorrow and blabbers nonsense as Percival strokes and kisses his head, even as he must be hurting from Newt’s weight.

A while later, Newt blinks awake again to soft murmurs, and it's one of the healers who came to check up on his patient. Sometime while he was unconscious, they must have expanded the bed to accommodate him and he’s immensely grateful that they let him stay here. The healer notices him gives a small smile before he leaves.

After a moment of silence, Newt shifts away guiltily and leans up on his elbows. Percival gazes up at him, smiles, causing him to duck his head in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Did I hurt you?”

Percival shakes his head once, somehow looking serene yet burdened all at once. Now that Newt is no longer in a state of euphoric hysteria, the weight of what happened to Percival shows quite obviously as he observes how his lover truly is. The bruises under his eyes, gaunt face, tense mouth, and shivering limbs are just a few indications that Newt had failed to notice. Of course Percival wouldn't be alright after such an ordeal in spite of his earlier nonchalance.

Newt turns onto his side to face the man, resting on one elbow while supporting his head, and with the free hand he brushes Percival's hair back. Percival leans into the touch and Newt almost cries again, presses a kiss to the man's forehead. He can't help but scoot closer and cradle him, curl protectively around him.

“You can't go back on your word, Percy,” Newt tries to joke but his voice cracks.

Percival doesn’t say anything in response, doesn’t even mention that Newt addresses him differently, which worries him enough to draw back a little and look. The man seems sad for some reason and Newt’s heart thumps hard once before speeding up nervously.

“What is the matter?” he asks.

It makes him brace for something terrible when Percival sighs and says, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” and his voice shakes.

Newt's hand is taken by a warm, rough one, and he unconsciously looks down to see new scars and callouses that weren’t there before; he doesn’t want to think why that is. Percival raises it and kisses his knuckles, his fingertips.

“I wanted to be the one to ask you this time,” Percival confesses as he meets his eyes, “for your hand in marriage.”

Newt stares, blinks.

“Goodness,” he mumbles then huffs a laugh, dizzy and breathless with relief. “Is that all? You had me frightened for a moment.”

But Percival doesn’t laugh or tease him, simply stares solemnly for another few seconds before curling further into Newt’s side. Newt doesn’t understand what that means but he leaves it alone for now.

 

 

Percival refuses to recover at the Graves’ family house, much to his parents’ chagrin.

Their own house that they return to after three more days of monitoring is cold and barren, nothing like the home they had made it. The security team had come through to dismantle any curses and hexes on objects around the place to make certain that any influence of Grindelwald was removed, but there were significantly less affects than before Newt’s trip. Percival steps in cautiously, clearly wanting to cast his own spells to check but unable to, and so Newt does it for him.

For all that Percival had seemed unaffected the first few days after he woke in the healing bay, Newt soon realises that it had been a cover, a façade he wore until he felt comfortable enough to let go. It breaks his heart to know that Percival still feels the need to hide from his aurors, but with the tension of discomfort that existed between them during the time the aurors had visited in the wards, minutes full of guilt and shame and anger tainting the air, it's regretful yet understandable.

As they make their way through the house, the man says nothing else, leaving Newt to watch and follow as Percival moves around to each corner, assessing the whole place with an unnerving silence. He stops at some walls and areas for longer than others and sees what Newt cannot. His heart aches as Percival reminisces on the terrible moments before his capture.

Objects are missing from their home, a lot of their personal belongings and for some reason all of Newt’s. Nothing irreplaceable, thankfully, those being safe in his suitcase.

When they first enter the bedroom to turn in for the night, Percival stands at the doorway with a tight grip on the knob, stiff even as he trembles while taking in the changes. Newt notices what's missing, difficult not to when it’s a significant furniture.

“It was me; I’m sorry.”

Newt looks at Percival who is staring somewhere far away, at things no longer in this room. He waits.

“They needed to be destroyed. I knew when—when he trespassed, I needed to hide any information pertaining to the safety of others; MACUSA, you...” Percival takes a step inside, another, gestures to a vague spot on the floor. “That was from a curse that he fortunately deflected, and it crashed through the ceiling here, managed to shatter my desk and your letters to me and most of the documents I had from work.”

The voice with which he speaks is carefully neutral while he steps on the assumed area, scuffs a foot over it.

Oh.

Newt feels a little sick, light-headed with the realisation that it was Percival’s intention to be rid of any evidence of Newt's presence to hide him from Grindelwald, even as he was fighting for his life.

And the letters—the ones that Percival had treasured dearly, the letters that he once told him how sometimes they were the only things that connected him to Newt before all this. Though Newt had teased that technically Percival doesn’t need them anymore since the person himself is here, he had respected the man's sentiment for them and personally thought it cute. Now, they’re no more.

He stands where he is, biting his lip and fidgeting and unsure of how to respond, and watches Percival’s back like it might give him the answers.

“They did a good job of patching all this,” Percival remarks blankly, standing still in the middle of their room. His expression is anything but when he finally turns to look at Newt. “I’m glad you weren’t here, that he never had the opportunity.”

Before he knows it, Newt’s feet carry him swiftly to Percival and his arms wrap around the man. He holds him, unsure who is shaking more.

They stand together like that for a long time.

 

 

“It wasn’t just about proposing,” Percival later explains, some days into his enforced rest by the President.

It’s after a particularly bad nightmare, Newt nursing a cuppa next to Percival who has yet to look at him. His fiance had lashed out in the throes of horror and nearly choked with guilt when he had seen how he accidentally hurt Newt in the process. Though they share physical warmth on the sofa in front of the fireplace, Newt has doubts whether any warmth reaches within either of them. He tucks in closer by Percival's side.

“I wanted to give this to you; you had been waiting so long, somehow having the strength and patience to pursue what I didn't return until I finally did. And I thought that I would show my sincerity, the depth of what I felt for you in a tangible way since that's what you’ve been doing all along. You deserved it.”

And he had thought of it before his mother's howler arrived after Newt's visit, even before Newt decided to visit at all, planned his proposal exactly down to the last detail as is his tendency.

Newt thinks that they can still do those things, even if the big moment has already been spoiled by Newt's own hastiness (he was reasonably distressed at the time). He'd still appreciate a proposal in return nonetheless. He says that when Percival feels better, they should do so because he wants it, wants to experience everything Percival is willing to give.

This time, when Percival gives him a long look, it doesn’t seem as sad.

 

 

The road to recovery is not a linear one, but the collective efforts of Newt and his creatures, the aurors and Percival’s own stubborn will make the process easier.

It takes a month for Percival to return to work, a month of nightmares and pain, tension and anger that brew beneath his skin without an outlet. On worse days, Percival sneaks into Newt's case to listen to the bowtruckles chitter or lie for a nap with Dougal. His distress is something that the creatures understand better than Newt sometimes, so he does his best to leave them be whenever possible though he doesn’t go far.

Josephine takes to sharing from her hoard when she realises that Percival doesn't scold her anymore for nicking his pens, as if she's trying to cheer him up. The first time it had happened, Percival had quietly shed tears into her fur.

They have as many visitors as Percival allows which surprisingly is a significant number. The stilted conversations, giving and receiving of well-wishes get better with each attempt, and while it saddens Newt that it had taken such a terrible incident for Percival and his aurors to become more intentional in building their comraderie, he's glad there is further progress being made at last. As a result, returning to work is less of a burden and hassle than they both expect.

Newt for his part stays with him as much as possible, as much for himself as for Percival. He has his own nightmares—of failing Percival, of finding him dead, of Grindelwald taking him away—and some nights he can’t fall back asleep, instead staying up to read or work on his book while occasionally glancing at the man breathing and alive and _here_  on the bed with him.

He also kisses Percival—a lot—because he wants to, and it seems to have the added benefit of calming the man or putting him in a better mood when nothing else does. He kisses him on the mouth, presses shy ones behind the ear, gives them on the crown and forehead and cheek. He arches into the ones Percival peppers over his torso, down his stomach, when he feels a particular need for intimacy between their bared bodies, sighs when he feels them at the hollow of his throat.

He sees the marks on him in the mirror the mornings after, and grins silly to himself.

Theseus brings good news the next time he visits, of a criminal brought to proper justice. It's a touching sight to behold when his brother and best friend hold one another tightly, apologizing and thanking each other in turns. They spend a night celebrating and also being congratulated because Theseus wasn’t able to in person when they first informed him of their unofficial engagement.

Something about the visit helps—Newt suspects that it’s a kind of closure to a horrible and trying time in their lives—if the lessened frequency of the nightmares and haunted looks are any indication. As the nightmares lessen, Percival relaxes little by little, no longer so tense and agitated and watching over his shoulder every moment,  and Newt can still breathe when Percival happens to be out of his sight.

By the time Percival is ready for field work again, Newt doesn’t worry himself to death because now there are those that he can trust to take care of the man should he have any problems. If needed, someone like Senior Auror O'Brien is capable of physically removing Percival from the situation while someone calls Newt, and others like Ms. Perkins or Tina to talk to him gently as he endures an attack. They’re all kind of sweet, really.

 

 

One day, when Newt catches him smiling unconsciously at the nundu, his heart nearly stops before squeezing tight until he's breathless with unbelievable relief. Of course, he responds by walking up to him to have a taste of that happiness.

“What were you smiling about?” Newt asks that night as they lie together to sleep.

Percival shrugs, doesn’t seem to realise he's smiling again this moment. “Just thinking how ridiculous it was for me to be watching a nundu play with a ball of yarn inside a magical suitcase.”

“It's her third one already,” Newt sighs, but his exasperation is ruined by his own grin. “But she's progressively getting better at keeping them intact.”

“Good for her,” Percival replies seriously, or tries to but ends up snorting in amusement.

Helpless with love and affection bursting in his chest, Newt surges forward, catches Percival’s mouth with his clumsily and sinks into his welcoming arms. They make love sweetly, gently, Newt hiding tears in Percival's hair because thank god that he has found reason to start smiling again.

 

 

Percival proposes not too long after at the end of a wonderful weekend, all his meticulous planning executed flawlessly down to the very rings he picked months ago, presented at the appointment to have them charmed for luck and protection; because of course he can, he’s Percival Graves. If there had to be a flaw, it’s that Newt doesn’t say 'yes' quickly enough since he’s much too occupied with kissing the life out of his _official_  intended.

They leave together the next week to visit their families and share the news as well. It’s then that Mrs. Graves cries as she hugs her son, causing Percival to cough in embarrassment and share awkward glances with his father.

Newt’s family don’t even act surprised, offering simple congratulations and warm hugs, but mum cooks up a storm that evening, insisting that they eat until they can’t, then eat some more. She packs them leftovers to take home when they leave.

And then he finally introduces the man to Professor Kettleburn and Theresa, can’t help but laugh at how they seem to intimidate Percival, even more than his mum.

“She has her hippogriffs, but they have more than that,” is his explanation on the way home.

“They wouldn't do such a thing, Percy,” Newt admonishes at the implication.

Percival shrugs, then glances at Newt’s case pointedly.

“I wouldn't have followed through,” Newt sniffs, briefly recalling Grindelwald’s satisfyingly pale face, but he waited too long to answer and Percival raises a sceptical brow at him. “A harmless warning, that was all.” Percival snorts disbelievingly, and Newt offers a quick grin before sobering. “Believe me, I could have done much worse myself.”

Percival frowns at him, an odd mix of wonder and disapproval. “I wouldn't have wanted you or your creatures to become violent on my behalf.” He shushes Newt's protests with a brief kiss, face apologetic and worn. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “Thank you.”

That night, once they're back home, Newt has trouble falling asleep. All he does is lie on his side and watch the way Percival's chest rises and falls steadily, lashes fluttering as sleep slowly claims him, and it's then that Newt confesses in a hushed voice, “I would have done anything.”

Percival doesn’t react for a moment, then fumbles for Newt’s hand in the low light of the bedroom and briefly meets his eyes. It's dark enough that Newt can't quite tell what to make of it, but feels the weight of it all the same.

“I know,” Percival says, not sounding surprised at all—seems _fond_ , even—and grips his hand tight. “I know.”

And something in Newt uncoils at that, the casual acknowledgement and acceptance that some part of him is dark enough to consider, possibly commit an act of _dubious morality_  for the sake of protecting his loved ones. That he isn’t void of such thoughts and emotions that can drive him to do what he himself determines is right, even if it doesn't align with the laws this man strives to uphold.

Percival knows it and accepts, and that's far more than he had even imagined.

 _You shouldn’t_ , he wants to say, but Newt is selfish. He always has been rather greedy when it comes to anything regarding Percival, and if this is what he is allowed to have, he will take it gladly.

 

 

The summer of Newton Artemis Fido Scamander's thirty-first year, he marries the love of his life.

It's a wonderful day in which even the weather cooperates, the sun shining down upon them as they exchange their vows in a backyard under the witness of family and friends and hippogriffs. He changes his name to Newt Graves-Scamander and kisses his husband more than is appropriate for the public eye, chases down little Jo because she ran off with their rings. He cries too much, drinks even more than that, and steps all over Percival's feet during their first dance together as newlyweds (Percival had the blessed foresight to strengthen his shoes for it, thank goodness).

A couple aurors burst into tears during one of the speeches so Mr. Fontaine has to smack soberness into them, and any further disruptions from that particular section of guests are prevented with a single look from Percival.

But no matter, it’s easily the second best day of his life—of course, the day he met Percival being the first—and it's all the sweeter after waiting for this love to finally bear fruit that it may be shared between them.

For all that he has been rejected and scorned and hurt, Newt marvels at the resiliency of the human heart, to forgive and recover and love again and again. He isn’t one for destiny, fate—pragmatic for a magical being—but even he knows the chances of persistently loving a single person at the expense of his own heart are astoundingly minimal. Somehow, the reward of having this far outweighs what he has been put through; illogical, certainly, but true all the same.

The heart is a funny thing, he thinks, as it steadily pumps joy into every corner of his body, watching the way Percival’s eyes crinkle at the corners in laughter when Ms. Mathews tosses Mr. O'Brien over her shoulder in an impressive demonstration of deceptive inebriation. And maybe a little magical, too, because there’s no way he should be alive right now, not with how many times it has skipped a beat at the sight of this man sitting next to him at a modestly decorated table on their wedding day, who notices Newt’s no doubt besotted gaze and turns to meet it—ah, there it goes again.

“Something you’d like to say?” Percival prompts, low and gentle, the smile just for Newt grazing his features.

Newt swallows, words stuck in his throat because there's so much he wants to say yet nothing at the same time; there simply aren't enough words to describe what it means to him to be here in this moment, an inexplicable feeling that he had been heading towards this all along, detours and all, and that he's only halfway through this journey. That there is a continuous path ahead of him, one that he will walk from now on with Percival at his side, and the realisation makes his eyes sting. Percival's face softens impossibly further as Newt sniffles and for Merlin’s sake he had been absolutely determined not to cry anymore today—

“Not regretting this already, are you,” Percival teases lightly, then chuckles when Newt glares at him.

“One would think a thousand proposals is a clear indication that I didn't make a hasty decision,” Newt retorts, voice shaking only a little.

“It was only eleven, but point taken.”

“What?” Newt startles.

Percival raises a brow in question.

“How do you know? That it was eleven times,” Newt clarifies.

“Newt, I’m not _that_  old,” Percival sighs. “I know how to count.”

“Yes, well—no, I don’t mean—” Newt pauses. “I didn’t think you’d, ah, keep track. Of that.”

Even Newt himself doesn’t recall exactly how many times he asked Percival.

A frown appears on Percival’s face but he also looks away, a slight flush creeping up his neck. He’s embarrassed, Newt recognises with surprise.

“It wasn't for the sake of keeping track,” Percival says after a moment, glances back then away again. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to realise this isn't right for you, and then, well...” He shrugs, a shy, aborted thing of a movement.

Newt’s rather touched, feels his lips stretching wide into a grin. Percival coughs when he sees it, cheeks a little red, but he allows himself to be drawn back into a kiss that they have trouble maintaining because Newt can't stop smiling.

“I don’t know how you fooled your aurors into believing that you’re an unfeeling machine,” he says, then laughs at the indignant look he receives.

“Careful, I worked hard for that reputation,” Percival responds dryly.

Newt hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s time for a new reputation.”

“Newton,” Percival warns.

“That doesn’t work anymore, Percy.”

Percival gives him a long look, eyes narrowed. “You used to be cuter,” the man grumbles, but the lifted corners of his lips betray his affections.

“How could you?” Newt gasps with mock-hurt.

Percival just ruffles his hair in response, pulling his curls out of the vain attempt at taming them by his mum, and Newt smiles unapologetically when he hears her noise of displeasure from somewhere nearby. He’s dragged in for another kiss, doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of them.

They don’t quite manage this one, either, since a drunken auror decides that now is a good time to approach them and stumble into their laps, but then Newt gets to watch Percival glower the poor man into submission before patting him on his cheek and telling him to play safe.

Really, such a soft-hearted man.

And as if noticing Newt’s thoughts, Percival turns and eyes him sceptically, so Newt distracts him by kissing him silly.

Like a charm, they succeed this time.

 

 

(One day, while sitting by the fireplace in the living room of their new home and sipping on his evening tea, Newt will ask his husband to describe each proposal to him, shameless and stubborn in the face of the man’s protests. That dear husband will eventually give in, the same, kind voice that had read to him all those years ago filling the room as Newt winds their fingers together and watches their rings glint in the light of the fire and sparkle with magic.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next on my list will be the werewolf/vampire story, one more chapter to wrap up the first part, then I have a shapeshifter AU in the works along with a couple one-shots. Hopefully those won't take as long lol

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Castle Towers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004126) by [Gothams_Only_Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf)




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